


Bound and Determined

by Vitellia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Hermione is 17, Legilimency (Harry Potter), Marriage Law Challenge, Occlumency (Harry Potter), Slow Burn, Time Sand (but not Time Turner), marriage law, time manipulation (but not time travel)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:54:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 65,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28983702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vitellia/pseuds/Vitellia
Summary: The Dark Lord thought a marriage law would be a good way to keep Hermione Granger from helping Harry Potter defeat him. Unfortunately for the wizard formerly known as Tom Riddle, things don’t go quite according to plan.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 879
Kudos: 795
Collections: Hearts and Cauldrons Discord Members





	1. Chapter 1

If Harry and Ron don’t stop talking about Quidditch, Hermione’s head will explode. She’s sure it will. All over the bacon and toast. Ron probably wouldn’t even notice, just keep shoveling food in his mouth, bits of her brain right along with his fried eggs.

At the staff table, Professors Sprout and McGonagall are laughing about something, and Professor Snape looks in even worse humor than usual, if that’s possible. His eyes are hooded with dark shadows under them, and she notes that it’s one of his greasy hair days. It only looks like that some of the time, usually on the days when he looks particularly haggard, as though he hasn’t slept well. 

As though feeling Hermione’s eyes on him, Snape looks up from glowering into his coffee cup and turns his glower on her. Her breath catches at the intensity of it. He appears to be furious at her. She knows she hasn’t done anything—or at least she hopes she hasn’t—so it’s probably just a mad-at-the-world glower rather than anything aimed at her personally.

When he looks away, she follows his gaze to the owls swooping into the Great Hall. Snape expels a breath and pinches the bridge of his nose as an owl drops a copy of the Prophet in front of him. Hermione watches his jaw tense as he picks it up, as though he knows what’s in it, and he glances back at her before he opens it, an unreadable expression in his black eyes.

Hermione’s own copy is delivered then, and she puts a coin in the owl’s pouch and feeds it a bit of toast before opening the paper. She hears the gasps from around the Hall even before she reads the headline: _Muggleborn Marriage Law: All Witches to Wed_.

Marriage law? What kind of barbarous, medieval nonsense is this? She scans the article quickly, sees that it applies only to witches, not wizards. Figures. Magical Britain is so bloody sexist. According to the article, every Muggleborn witch in Britain—of _course_ it’s only Muggleborns—between the ages of seventeen and forty-seven is to marry either a Pureblood or Halfblood wizard within the next three months, and have their first child within the next two years. Requirements regarding subsequent children vary according to the age and previous offspring of the witch in question.

“Mione?”

Her head snaps around to glare at Ron. “What?”

“Um…there are sparks coming off your hair.”

“I bet there’d be sparks coming off _you_ if you weren’t male and Pureblood, Ron.” She glares at the paper. “Sexist, blood-purist arseholes.”

People are staring at her, but she doesn’t care. Seamus is Muggleborn, but he’s male. Lavender and Parvati are witches, and Lavender’s turned seventeen, but they’re both Pureblood. None of the witches in seventh year are Muggleborn. She’s the only Gryffindor to fall under the law. She glances at the other House tables. One Hufflepuff seventh year is sobbing.

Harry says, “I can marry you, Mione.”

“No, you can’t,” Hermione says. “You aren’t of age yet, and won’t be when the three months are up. And even if you were, what about Ginny?”

Harry looks down the table to where Ginny is sitting with Dean. The frustrated longing she sees on his face tells Hermione everything she needs to know. She looks down at her plate and pushes a sausage link around with her fork. Ron won’t make the same offer. He’ll turn seventeen just before the three months are up, but she knows he won’t ask her. _Lav-Lav_ wouldn’t like it, and even if he didn’t have his tongue stuck halfway down that stupid bint’s throat every night in the common room, he still wouldn’t want to marry a bossy know-it-all like her. 

“I’ll bet one of my brothers will marry you,” Ron says, as if on cue.

Hermione snorts. That’s rich. Offer to put someone else on the chopping block in his place.

She looks up at the staff table, where the Headmaster catches Professor Snape’s eye. Both men stand and make their way towards the staff exit. Professor McGonagall is looking at Hermione. She’s taken off her glasses and is dabbing tears from her eyes with a tartan-edged handkerchief. They’re all looking at her with pity—Sprout, Slughorn, Flitwick, all of them. 

Knowing she shouldn’t, but unable to help herself, Hermione looks at the Slytherin table, where Parkinson taps her ring finger and smirks. Her eyes move to Malfoy, sitting beside Parkinson, expecting to see the same smug, _ha-ha, fuck you, Granger_ look on his face as the one Parkinson wears, but that’s not what she sees. Malfoy is looking at her, but it’s with an expression she can’t quite read. Speculative, she supposes she’d call it. Well, whatever Malfoy has in mind to torment her, it’s nothing beside this law—this horrid, barbarous, medieval law.

Hermione looks down at the cold, congealed mess on her plate and Vanishes it in disgust. Her reflection looks back at her from the now clean plate. Bushy hair, average features. Except on rare occasions like the Yule Ball, she’s never paid all that much attention to her appearance. It seemed to matter so much less than her grades and her academic future. And, of course, defeating Voldemort. 

Voldemort. Is he the one behind this law? He must be. He controls the Ministry and the Wizengamot, who appear to be nothing more than his puppets.

But why? Why would a blood-supremacist ideologue want filthy Mudblood witches marrying Pureblood wizards? She forces her eyes back to the newspaper, and continues reading from where she left off. The article cites falling birthrates and an increase in Squib births to Pureblood couples. Well, of course, she thinks. Don’t the stupid, inbred arseholes understand genetics? 

And then it hits her. Whoever is behind this law _does_ understand genetics. And if that person is in fact Voldemort, he’s not an ignorant, inbred Pureblood. He’s a diabolically intelligent Halfblood who probably understands—even if he can’t admit it to his bigoted followers—that part of the reason for his own exceptional power is the genetic diversity that his Muggle father brought to his mother’s withering Pureblood line.

That’s when the first of the proposals arrive. Antonin Dolohov, who, she suspects, is more interested in finishing what he started at the Ministry than in what she might do for his bloodline.

The next is from—gods, if this is a joke the Weasley twins are playing, it is _not_ funny—Draco Malfoy. She swallows, hard, folds the parchment before Ron or Harry can see it, and refuses to look anywhere near the Slytherin table.

When the third owl swoops toward her, she thinks, great, which Death Eater now? But this one is from Fred Weasley. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply. Thank God. Not that she’s in love with Fred—or even has so much as a schoolgirl crush on him—but at least she _likes_ him. 

And he isn’t a Death Eater. A pretty low bar for accepting marriage proposals, but that’s the point to which this law has brought her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first Hogwarts-era story, and it's a little darker than my others, since Voldemort is alive and engaging in his nefarious Dark Lordery. I've only written Hermione as an adult before, and I was a little hesitant to tread the precarious path of pairing a young Hermione with Snape. Lovely beta reader turtle_wexler tells me that I've successfully avoided squickiness in this regard.
> 
> There is some comedy in this story, but it's a little darker than usual. The romance is a slow burn, despite the, ahem, requirements of the legislation. Perhaps my biggest challenge was writing Lucius Malfoy, who as readers of my previous stories know, is a vain, fussy, scene-stealing charmer in the postwar world. But this is the during-war world, and Lucius is arse-deep in Death Eater politics. Once Lucius makes an appearance later in the story, do let me know how you think I've managed.
> 
> In the past, I've updated stories erratically rather than adhering to a schedule. This time, I'm going to try the scheduled approach, posting new chapters first thing in the morning (US time) on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. My inner validation-whore tells me to post weekly as so many writers do, since one gets more reviews that way, but I _hate_ waiting that long for chapters of a WIP, so I'm going to post thrice weekly.
> 
> Trigger warnings for dubious consent (in one chapter) and rape (off-screen, in another, and not between the paired characters). I'll mention those in author's notes when I get to those chapters.
> 
> Finally, the "Bound" in the title refers to marriage binding, and is a play on the old expression "bound and determined" meaning extremely determined (not sure if people still use it; my grandmother used to). If you're looking for BDSM, I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere.


	2. Chapter 2

“Fred Weasley has proposed to her,” Albus says.

Severus eyes the letter in Albus’s hand. “And why is he writing to you about it? Miss Granger is of age.”

“Indeed, she is, my boy. She wouldn’t be affected by the law otherwise. But the letter isn’t from Fred. It’s from Molly, telling me that I must convince Miss Granger to decline.”

That boy will be dead inside a week and Granger auctioned off to the highest bidder in the inner circle, and well Molly knows it, Severus thinks, but he keeps the thought to himself. None of this is his problem. 

Albus sighs. “She’s right, of course. Young Mr. Weasley won’t be able to protect Miss Granger.”

“Perhaps Mad-eye Moody could be prevailed upon to propose? He might have a fifty-fifty chance of surviving the honeymoon.”

“Don’t be daft, Severus. Even you couldn’t expect a seventeen-year-old girl to marry a one-legged septuagenarian with only two thirds of a nose?”

“If it’s between him and a Death Eater?”

Albus’s eyes twinkle in exactly the way that always makes the hairs stand up on the back of Severus’s neck. “I suppose it depends on which Death Eater.”

Severus narrows his eyes. The old man wouldn’t dare. He must be talking about Draco. “I am aware of my godson’s…infatuation with the girl.”

“I was not referring to young Mr. Malfoy, though I agree that in the absence of the obvious choice, he would probably be the best of a bad lot.”

“The obvious choice?” Severus stares. “No. You are not contemplating…surely you cannot…old man, you are barking mad if you think for one moment that…that… No. Absolutely not.”

“What do you think I’m thinking, Severus? Who is the obvious choice, as you see it?”

“Draco,” he says stubbornly, though he knows that even if Draco did wish to treat Granger decently, the Dark Lord would never permit it. “They’re of an age, and he’s fond of her.”

“She hates him,” Albus says.

“She’d hate Dolohov more,” Severus counters. After the battle at the Department of Mysteries, he knows that Dolohov would do almost anything to have Granger in his power. “Draco is young and rich and good-looking. And Granger is intelligent enough to manipulate him.”

“Neither Lucius nor Tom will allow that to happen,” Albus says. “You know that, Severus. If Draco tried to protect her—and I’m not convinced he would—he’d only end up dead, and she’d be given to another Death Eater.”

Severus expels a frustrated breath. “That could happen if your _obvious choice_ marries her as well.”

“You’re older, wiser, and more powerful than Draco, Severus.”

“Emphasis on the _older_. She’s seventeen!”

“How old is Dolohov? I believe he graduated the year your mother was a first year.”

Severus turns his back and stares out the window. “She could go into hiding.”

“Tom would find her. You know he would.”

“I could Obliviate her, make her forget she was even a witch.”

“Accidental magic. He’d find her.”

Severus glares at Albus and paces. Albus waits quietly, watching him. Severus stops and turns towards Albus. “She’ll still be given to one of the others after the Dark Lord kills me for getting in the way of his plan.”

“Not if you convince him this is a better plan, that you can gain Miss Granger’s trust and thus give him better access to Harry.”

“Convince him? As though he were a rational person instead of a half-mad megalomaniac?” He starts pacing again. “And what makes you think I _can_ gain her trust?”

“You already have it.”

“Only until I tell her she has to marry me,” he retorts. 

“I shall tell her that it was my idea,” Albus says.

“And that will make it so much more palatable to her, I’m sure,” he sneers. 

“I would wager so, yes.”

“You would _wager_? Tell me, old man, if the Dark Lord kills me, who’s going to kill _you_?”

“I don’t think he will kill you.”

“You don’t _think_.”

“The arithmancy says he won’t.”

“Albus.” He runs a hand through his hair and grimaces. Gods, he should have washed it this morning. _This_ is what the old man wants to inflict on the Gryffindor princess? “I can’t.”

“You must.”

“That’s what you always say, damn you.”

Albus gives him a sad smile. A pitying smile. God, how he hates being pitied. “Fucking hell,” he mutters.

“And that’s what _you_ always say, when you’ve accepted the inevitable.”


	3. Chapter 3

When Hermione arrives in his office, the Headmaster is sitting at his desk, smiling at her kindly. Professor Snape is standing at the window, the light against his back, his face in shadow.

“Come in, Miss Granger,” the Headmaster says. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you,” she says.

“Sherbet lemon? No? Do sit down, dear girl. There, now. I know you must be worried, but we’ll get all this sorted.”

“Thank you, sir, but I think I’ve already got it sorted.” At the sound of a derisive snort from the window, Hermione turns to look at Professor Snape, but he’s turned to face the window. “I’m going to marry Fred Weasley.”

“I thought at least one of the Weasley brothers might step forward,” Professor Dumbledore says. “They’re good boys.”

Boys. Hermione frowns. “You don’t think I should marry Fred?”

“I understand why you would want to. You’ve known his family for years, and you have to marry someone, according to this dreadful law. Better someone you know and like, even if you don’t love him?”

“Yes, that’s it exactly, Headmaster. I knew you’d understand. Mrs. Weasley thinks we shouldn’t, but I don’t see any way around it. My first thought was to go into hiding, but Harry and Ron and Fred all said Voldemort would—” She stops mid-sentence at the hiss from near the window. “Is something wrong, Professor Snape?”

“Why must you bloody Gryffindors always say his name?”

“Because _You Know Who_ sounds infantile, and _He Who Must Not Be Named_ sounds melodramatic, as though Vincent Price were saying it on one of those old late night horror films my grandad used to watch.” She looks at Snape for a long moment. “Is there a reason we shouldn’t say his name?”

“When one bears his Mark,” the Headmaster says, “hearing the name causes pain.” 

Hermione nods.

“Your first thought was to go into hiding, but your friends thought that _he_ would find you?” the Headmaster asks. 

“Yes. Though if I were Obliviated—”

“Professor Snape and I have already discussed that possibility.”

She looks back and forth between them. “You have? What about the Fidelius charm?”

“Because that worked so well for the Potters,” Snape says.

“Miss Granger,” the Headmaster says, “Whether Tom _will_ find you. One way or the other.”

“But why?”

“Because he can use the threat of hurting you to get to Harry,” Dumbledore says. “If I’m right, you are not incidental to this law. Not, as the Muggles say, collateral damage. You, Miss Granger, are the _reason_ for this law.”

“I’m what? Headmaster, I don’t understand.”

“The Dark Lord wants you given to a Death Eater,” Snape cuts in. “More than likely Dolohov.”

Hermione draws in a sharp breath. Dolohov. The wizard who cursed her at the Department of Mysteries, who left her permanently scarred, who almost killed her. “Why?”

“Because he _can_ , Miss Granger,” Snape says. “Because it will show his followers what happens to uppity Muggleborns who don’t know their place. And because it will unbalance Potter and deny him your assistance and your moderating influence. Without you, Potter will be more likely to act rashly and to make foolish mistakes.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “And you think they’ll kill Fred if he marries me?”

“More than likely.”

“So, what do you suggest I do?”

“Marry a Death Eater,” the Headmaster says. When she opens her mouth to protest, he continues, “just not the one the Dark Lord has in mind.”

“Who?” When Dumbledore and Snape exchange a look, and Snape grimaces, she knows. When she said Voldemort’s name, he hissed in pain. He has the Mark. She looks back and forth between the two men. When her eyes come to rest on Snape, he nods, looking disgusted.

* * *

Severus sneers, waits for the gasp of horror, the shudder of revulsion. But she goes very quiet, and he can practically see the wheels turning in her know-it-all brain, analyzing the problem, fingers probably itching for a quill so she can cover six feet of parchment with pros and cons. Which is rather an odd response from a teenage girl told she ought to marry her most hated teacher.

“Why would you do this, Professor?” she asks. “I gain my life from this arrangement. You gain nothing, and lose your freedom.”

“You lose yours as well.” Is she serious? She’s worried about what _he_ ’s losing? 

“Yes, but in exchange for my life. You lose the chance to marry for love.” 

“I shall never marry, for _love_ or for any other reason not connected with this war, Miss Granger.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I assure you that I do.”

She sighs. “I felt bad enough about agreeing to marry poor Fred. But even though he doesn’t love me, at least he _likes_ me as a friend. You’d be marrying someone you actively dislike.”

“My dislike is not personal, Miss Granger. I dislike everyone.”

She almost smiles at this, then her expression turns worried. “Wouldn’t V— erm, _he_ be angry with you for interfering with his plan?”

“In all likelihood.”

“Would he,” she begins, then bites her lip. “Would he…hurt you?”

“I would be very surprised if he did not.”

“But he wouldn’t kill you?”

“It is always a possibility, but as I am of more use to him alive than dead, I believe the odds are in my favor.”

“And you’re willing to take that risk? For me? Why?”

“Because Potter is the only one who can defeat the Dark Lord, and your presence at his side increases Potter’s odds of success.”

Granger turns to Albus. “And you’re willing to risk losing your spy in the Dark Lord’s inner circle for this?”

Severus schools his features. Granger doesn’t know that is what he is. Though, if he’s willing to do this for her, for Potter, then that’s the only logical conclusion. Interesting that she made it so quickly, and appeared not even to entertain the idea that he is actually the Dark Lord’s spy and not Albus’s. If she thought there was any chance of that, she wouldn’t be as calm as she is. Honestly, he expected at least _some_ teenage feminine histrionics, but thus far she seems almost without emotion, almost as though she were Occluding.

Fucking hell. The old man hasn’t taught her Occlumency, has he? 

“I do not believe I will lose him,” Albus says. “If Severus convinces Tom that he can gain your trust, and Tom believes that Severus can influence Harry by means of you, it may in fact enhance Severus’s status in the inner circle rather than damaging it.”

Granger turns to look at Severus, as though for confirmation.

“Possibly,” he says.

“Then he wouldn’t torture you?”

Merlin’s balls, why is the girl so concerned about whether he’s going to be tortured? “No, I imagine I’ll get a good Crucioing whether he thinks it’s beneficial in the long run or not.”

She stares, open-mouthed. “Why are you so calm about it?”

“Because, Miss Granger, the Dark Lord tortures his followers to punish them for specific infractions, but he also tortures them for no reason at all, just to keep them off balance, to remind them that he _can_. He does it at irregular intervals, sometimes twice within a fortnight, other times not for six months at a stretch, so that we never know when the sword of Damocles will fall, living always with the knowledge that it could come at any moment.”

“That’s barbarous.”

“Indeed. But as I have not found myself at the wrong end of the Dark Lord’s wand for many months, I am, as it were, past due.” He sighs. “And if I’m going to be tortured, I would prefer that it be in pursuit of a worthy end rather than on a whim.”

“I’m so sorry that you’ll have to endure that because of me.”

“As I am sorry that you will have to endure what you will, Miss Granger.”

She frowns, as though puzzled.

“Being married to me,” he says stiffly.

“It’s hardly comparable to the Cruciatus curse.”

“Indeed not,” he agrees. “The Cruciatus lasts but a few minutes, and the aftereffects only a few days, in most cases.”

She lowers her gaze.

“But fortunately for you,” he continues, “I am unlikely to survive this war, so you’ll be able to have your pick of the unmarried Weasley brothers once the Dark Lord is defeated.”

“And if he isn’t defeated?”

“Then you’ll be safer as the wife of an apparently loyal Death Eater than as one of the spoils of war.”

She swallows.

“Before you make your decision, Miss Granger, you should know that the Ministry registration of a wizarding marriage is not complete until it has been consummated.”

She nods.

That’s it? She doesn’t even appear to be inconvenienced. Which probably means she’s had sex before. Thank Merlin. Though the blood would have been valuable. Still, he’s relieved. Bedding her will be awkward enough without having to soothe a terrified virgin.

“What about my being your student?” Granger asks. “I don’t want you taking House points every time we have a row.”

Severus almost smiles at this, but manages to restrain himself. “Gryffindor has won too many House cups in recent years. I believe it is time the score was evened.”

Granger does smile at this. At least the girl has a sense of humor. He’s never seen it before, so wasn’t sure.

“There will be no taking of House points, Miss Granger,” Albus says. “You can sit your Potions NEWT early. In fact, I’d recommend sitting all your NEWTs as soon as possible. It could be difficult for Muggleborn students to complete their education in the not too distant future.”

Granger nods. “I’ll start preparing immediately.”

Of course she will.

“It’s settled, then?” Albus asks. “You’ll marry?” When Granger nods again, and Severus does likewise, Albus unfurls a parchment on his desk and holds out a quill. Severus takes it and signs, then hands the quill to Granger. She signs and puts the quill back on Albus’s desk. The parchment rolls itself up and disappears with a pop. “There,” Albus says, “your betrothal is filed at the Ministry. When would you like to complete the Binding?”

“Is there a danger that someone may try to kidnap me before the Binding?” Granger asks.

“You’re safer here in the castle than you would be anywhere else,” Albus says, “but yes, it’s a possibility.”

“As soon as possible, then,” she says, then looks at Severus. “Unless you’d rather wait?”

He shakes his head. 


	4. Chapter 4

She didn’t realize _as soon as possible_ would be in less than fifteen minutes. But she supposes it’s better to get it over with instead of putting it off and worrying about whether she’s doing the right thing.

The Headmaster asked if she’d like her friends there to witness, and she stupidly said yes. Stupidly because Harry and Ron are acting like the teenage idiots they are. She really ought to have known better and asked for Professor McGonagall.

“Mione, you can’t marry him!” Ron says. “He’s old and he hates us and he’s…he’s _Snape_.”

“Ron,” she begins, but Harry steamrolls over her.

“You said you were going to marry Fred,” Harry says. “Not _him_.”

“The Headmaster says the Dark Lord will kill Fred if he marries me,” Hermione says. The Dark Lord. That’s what she needs to get used to calling him, if she’s going to be married to a Death Eater.

“Because Snape said so,” Ron says, “because he wants to get into your knickers.”

“Ron!” Hermione shouts.

“ _Mister_ Weasley,” Snape says, his voice pitched low and deadly. “I assure you, I have not the least desire to go anywhere near your friend’s… _anything_.” He sneers the last word, as though it’s something disgusting, like flobberworm mucous.

Hermione turns toward the wall, eyes filling with tears that she won’t give Snape the satisfaction of seeing. She knew he didn’t like her, but she didn’t think he was _disgusted_ by her. God, can she really go through with this? Marry a man who is sickened by the idea of touching her?

“Get out,” she says without turning around. “Both of you, out.”

“But, Mione,” Ron says.

“But nothing,” she says, walking to stand before the Headmaster, looking only at him. “Please, sir, make them leave. I’d rather Professor McGonagall witness the Binding.”

“We’re sorry, Mione,” Harry says, but Hermione doesn’t look at him, can’t turn around and let her husband to be, who hates her and is revolted by her, see that he’s made her cry. The idea that she will owe her life to a man she disgusts is almost more than she can bear, and she has no emotional bandwidth left to deal with two teenage fuckwits.

“I think you boys had better go,” the Headmaster says. 

Hermione walks to the window and looks out at the black lake as the Headmaster sends a Patronus to summon Professor McGonagall.

Hermione remains looking out the window. She’s been studying Occlumency since last year so she’d be able to teach Harry. She’s not sure how successful she’s been, since she hasn’t had a skilled Legilimens test her shields, but she can keep both Harry and Ron out without any trouble at all. Harry’s learned some, more than he did during his disastrous lessons with Snape, but she isn’t sure how much good she’s done. 

One benefit of her study, which she didn’t anticipate, is that it’s made her much better at hiding her emotions. Sometimes, when the emotions are too strong, she forgets to use it, as she did just now when she started crying. Now that she has a few minutes to gather her thoughts, to look out at the lake and breathe, she is able to hide the pain where he won’t see it. When Professor McGonagall arrives, she turns and approaches the three professors calmly.

Hermione looks at the carpet as McGonagall exclaims and Dumbledore soothes, and eventually the ceremony begins. Hermione doesn’t look at any of them, keeps her eyes on their joined hands as Dumbledore wraps the binding cloths around them, spouting ridiculous nonsense about love and fidelity and honor and protection. Well, the protection part isn’t nonsense. That’s what this is all about. Protecting her from getting raped by Dolohov, and protecting Harry from having to fight the Dark Lord without her help.

Too bad no one can protect poor Snape from having to get near her knickers. Like he’s some great prize, with his greasy hair and his insulting remarks. She may have to marry the bastard, but she doesn’t have to look at him, not now during their farce of a wedding, and not later when he has to perform the onerous duty of consummating it.

She’s barely listening when the Headmaster says something about sealing it with a kiss, so she nearly jumps when she feels Snape’s lips brush hers, closed, the pressure light, but enough for the magic to flare around them. 

It’s beautiful, and if not for the deadening effect of Occlumency, she’d have drawn an awed breath, her humiliation and fury eclipsed by her fascination with a new aspect of magic she knows nothing about. She’ll go to the library at the first opportunity to read about Binding magics. Or perhaps Professor Snape has a book on the subject, and she can read tonight…tonight…in his quarters, her quarters now, where she has to consummate her marriage to a man who doesn’t want her. 

She burns with shame. She didn’t harbor any romantic illusions about her first time—or not many, anyway—but even if she knew it was likely to involve more fumbling than fireworks, she always assumed it would be with someone she loved. Then came this law, and she reconciled herself to marrying Fred, whom she didn’t love but at least liked. Then the Headmaster said it had to be Snape, and even _that_ she could accept, because she respected him and when they were talking about it earlier, it felt like an unfortunate circumstance thrust on both of them, not something either of them wanted, but still, it was the two of them against the Dark Lord.

Then Harry and Ron came and said what they said, and Snape said what _he_ said, and now it feels utterly unbearable. Thank God for Occlumency, for being able to hide behind her shields so he can’t hurt or humiliate her any more than he already has.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta reader turtle_wexler advised me to put a dubious consent warning on this chapter. Both parties have consented, but only because they couldn't see a way out of it, and both of them would prefer to be just about anywhere but where they are right now.

“If you’ll hand me your wand, I’ll add you to the wards,” Severus says in the corridor outside his—their—quarters.

Granger—what the fuck is he supposed to call her now?—hands it to him without looking at him. She hasn’t looked at him since she ordered Potter and Weasley out of Albus’s office. Fucking Potter and Weasley. If they hadn’t said what they said, she wouldn’t be giving him the silent treatment now, wouldn’t have refused to look at him during their entire marriage ceremony.

Before that, she really seemed like she didn’t mind all that much. But of course she did, and the strain of hiding it became too much. 

In the sitting room, he points at a door. “My office is through there. Kitchenette that way.” He points again. “My bedroom and bath.” She looks around, but still not at him. He sees her eyes linger on the bookshelves for a moment, then slide back to the floor. 

He walks to an open expanse of wall. “I shall ask the castle to create an en suite for you here,” he says, and waves his wand in a complicated series of motions. After a moment, a door appears and he opens it and motions for her to enter. He frowns. He was envisioning something bigger. He’ll have to consult Filius on how to enlarge it. He hasn’t done any charm work like this in years.

Alerted by the castle, an elf pops into the room with Granger’s trunk, which looks enormous in the small room, and a ball of orange fur with a squashed face.

“You have a cat,” he says, like an idiot. _Obviously_.

“Half Kneazle. I should have told you,” she says, still not looking at him. “If it’s a problem, I can make arrangements for him to stay elsewhere.”

“It is not a problem.” What kind of monster does she think he is? Dragging her down here to be married to a man twice her age and not even letting her keep her familiar? “Are you hungry?”

She shakes her head no. 

“Would you like to unpack?”

“I can do that later.” She bites her lip. 

Ah, so that’s how it is. Hermione Granger, who gets all her homework done early instead of putting off unpleasant tasks like the rest of the student body, wants to get _this_ bit of unpleasantness checked off her To Do List sooner rather than later as well.

“So, you want to get it over with, then,” he says. 

She winces. She actually _winces_. He’s going to need a lust potion to get it up if this keeps up, only he doesn’t have any brewed.

“Just as well, he says. “I’m not a procrastinator either. One thing we have in common, Miss— Mrs. Snape.”

She turns and walks into the tiny bedroom. She takes off her shoes, slides under the bedclothes fully dressed, then Vanishes her clothes, which land perfectly folded on the dresser. Fucking hell. Now he’s standing here fully dressed and has to disrobe in front of her? Not bloody likely.

“I shall be back shortly,” he says, and goes to his room, Vanishes his clothes and puts on his dressing gown, which is more threadbare than he realized. He runs a hand through his hair. Fuck. He forgot he didn’t wash it this morning. If he takes a shower now, she’ll know he did it just for her. But is that a bad thing? He doesn’t want to appear inconsiderate. Yes, he’ll definitely shower. And shave.

When he’s out of the shower, with damp but not at all greasy hair, and freshly shaven, he puts the ratty dressing gown back on and starts for the door, only to stop. He’s nowhere near hard. One would think, with a naked witch in the next room, that this would not be a problem. But the naked witch in question is so disgusted at the thought of consummating this marriage that she can’t even look at him.

What kind of Potions Master doesn’t have every kind of potion he might need on hand? But he’s never needed a lust potion. He’s not even forty, and all the equipment works fine. Or it did, anyway, until Hermione Granger got naked in his rooms. What the fuck is he going to do?

What he can’t do is stand here in his shabby dressing gown while she lies there waiting and wondering whether he’s done a runner. 

There’s a spell, of course, but he doesn’t want to use it, since it doesn’t last all that long, and he doesn’t want her to see him do it. But if he does it now, maybe nature will take over and sort things out. Yes. He’ll use the spell. Maybe when he gets there, things will…look up. 

When he gets to her room, he sees she’s enlarged the bed. Not much, because the room isn’t big enough, but sufficiently so that he isn’t in danger of falling off the bed trying to get the deed done. She obviously got bored waiting, because she’s reading. She’s Hermione Granger—of course she’s reading. But the _way_ she’s reading. She’s lying on her stomach with the book propped up in front of her. As she turns the page, the bedclothes slip down so he can see the side of her breast. Under the bedclothes, the curves of her lower body are displayed in a way they never have been under her robes. He swallows, and feels a twitch. He’s pretty sure he’s going to be fine without using the spell again.

She marks her place and puts the book aside, then turns to lie on her back. She hasn’t looked at him yet. He should ask her what she wants, whether she wants him to be quick and get it over with, or take his time and—no, she wants it over with quickly. She can’t even bring herself to look at him. The less he touches her, the more she’ll appreciate it. 

“Nox,” he says, then slides into bed beside her and Vanishes his dressing gown to where he can reach it when they’re finished. When he casts a lubrication spell, he hears her sharp intake of breath. “I assumed you would prefer that,” he says. She doesn’t say anything. Or move. At all. Like she’s a corpse or something. Fuck.

He positions himself between her legs and enters her. Her cry of pain—yes, definitely pain—and the feeling of being inside a woman so much tighter than any he’s ever been in tell him that he made a Very Big Mistake assuming she wasn’t a virgin. “Are you…were you…?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says through gritted teeth.

“Lumos,” he says and pulls out. There’s blood on his cock and on her thighs. “The fuck it doesn’t matter, Granger. You should have told me!”

“You should have _asked_ , if you wanted to know,” she shouts, showing the first emotion he’s seen since before the Binding.

“Do you know how much virgin’s blood is worth?” he asks. “The lubrication spell makes it worthless.”

She narrows her eyes. “You have _got_ to be kidding me.” 

“Of course that isn’t the only reason I’d have wanted to know,” he says, realizing how awful that sounded. “I’d have gone slower, been more careful.”

She gives a derisive snort.

“What? You think I’m that insensitive?”

“Honestly? Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Fucking hell,” he mutters.

“Can you finish, please, so I can go take a shower? I assume the consummation doesn’t ‘count’”—she actually makes scare quotes, in case he missed her sarcasm—“unless you finish.”

No, actually he _can’t_ finish, because having blood all over the place and her yelling at him has left him in no condition to finish anything. Granger realizes this a moment later, and rolls her eyes. He hadn’t thought it possible to deflate even further, but that eyeroll proved him wrong.

The next moment, he’s hard again, and he realizes she’s cast a wandless Engorgio. “Why you little—”

“Sauce for the goose,” she cuts in. “If you can use that lubrication spell on me so you wouldn’t have to touch me, I can use this one on you to get things back on track.”

“You are the most infuriating woman.”

“You want to annul the marriage? It’s not too late. We haven’t finished consummating it.”

“And let Dolohov have you?”

“Why not? What do you care?” she shouts, breasts heaving and eyes flashing. 

Suddenly, he wants nothing more than to take one of those breasts in his mouth and sink back into her. But that isn’t what she wants, because she’s looking at him like she wants to kill him. Whether she does or not, there is no way he’s letting Dolohov get his filthy hands on her.

“Turn around,” he says. “Get on your hands and knees.” Best not to risk any more mood-killing eye rolls.

She mutters something under her breath that he can’t quite catch but which definitely isn’t flattering, but she does it.

He takes a moment to admire the view, then positions himself at her entrance and eases in slowly. Gradually, he feels her stretching to accommodate him, and he begins to move. 

Is he imagining it, or is her breath coming a little faster? And was that sound an almost-stifled moan? Is she _enjoying_ this? Should he reach around to stimulate her and see if he can make her come before he does, which is going to be soon? Would she like that? Or would she slap his hand away and tell him to finish already and be quick about it? Worse, would she feel as though he was taking advantage, touching her in a way not absolutely required to consummate the marriage?

He decides that things have gone pear-shaped enough, and best not to risk making them any worse, so he speeds up until he feels himself falling over the edge, buried balls deep in a witch who hates him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is about as angsty as the story gets. In Chapter 7, things will start to look up.

Hermione pulls the duvet up to her chin and curls onto her side, facing away from him. She lies still, feeling the mattress shift as he gets off the bed.

“I’ll bring you a contraceptive potion now, and something for the pain, if you need it,” he says.

She doesn’t say anything, trying to hold the tears back until he gets the fuck _out_ already. She’s too overtired and overstimulated to use Occlumency now. Besides, she wants to have a good cry now, once _he_ is gone.

She hears his footsteps recede and then return a minute later. “The purple one is the contraceptive,” he says. She doesn’t reply. She was a virgin, not an imbecile. She knows what color contraceptive is. She listens. Is he waiting for her to get out of bed and take it now? Fat chance. God, surely he isn’t worried about whether she’ll take it? He must know that she wants to risk pregnancy as little as he does. 

Eventually, he leaves and closes the door behind him. Only then does she get up and swallow the purple liquid. She feels a soft caress against her ankles, and looks down to see that Crooks apparently slipped into her room as Snape was leaving. She wards the door, casts that Muffliato spell Harry found in the Half Blood Prince’s book, then climbs back into bed with her cat and lets the tears come.

How is she ever going to be able to look at Snape again after this? How are they going to live here together with the memory of this awful thing hanging between them?

When they were talking about the marriage in the Headmaster’s office, before Harry and Ron got there, she really did think it would be okay. They talked about every other option, and agreed that this, while not what either of them wanted, was the only one open to them. They were being adults about it. Mature. Sensible. Polite. Respectful. 

That’s how she imagined the consummation would be—polite and respectful, insofar as that was possible in such an awkward, uncomfortable situation. She didn’t expect passion or terms of endearment, but she thought he might at least _touch_ her before he fucked her.

But, as he told the boys in that sneering, mocking way, he had absolutely no desire to touch _anything_ of hers. Hence that stupid lubrication spell. So he wouldn’t have to touch her. So he could just plow right in without so much as asking if she’d ever _done_ it before.

She could have told him she hadn’t. _Should_ have told him, a reproachful voice in her head says, but she tells it to shut up. He should have asked. He was the one who’d done this before, who knew what it would be like. It was his responsibility. Serves him right that his precious potions ingredient got ruined. 

She’s still seething about that. Potions ingredients! _That’s_ what he was upset over. Not that he hurt her. That she’d wasted her valuable virgin’s blood.

Why _didn’t_ he ask? Why did he just assume she wasn’t? She thought everyone in the castle considered her too uptight and annoying to tempt anyone. And she didn’t even tempt her own husband. Except at the end, when he was taking her from behind—because he didn’t have to look at her, could pretend she was someone else—only then did he seem at all engaged in the process. The way his hands gripped her hips and he groaned in obvious pleasure. But that was just hormones. He couldn’t help it. He’d have done that with any woman. It had nothing to do with her personally.

She pushes away the thought that it felt good then, that she was starting to respond, to feel the way she does when she touches herself. But she didn’t want it to feel good, wanted to stay furious at him. When he finished, his breath coming in ragged gasps, she was both relieved and disappointed.

She cries harder, which she knows upsets Crooks, but she can’t help it. This morning she was minding her own business, eating toast and studying Runes, and now she’s lying in a sticky mess, sobbing like a pathetic, self-pitying loser because she’s married to a Death Eater who finds her so unappealing that he needed a spell to get hard.

She feels a petty sense of satisfaction when she thinks about casting that spell. Gods, the look on his face! She’d only read about it before, never cast it— _obviously_ —and she realizes she could have seriously injured him if she’d botched it. But she was so angry that she didn’t think about that at the time.

She pulls back the bedclothes and Vanishes the mess. She goes in the bathroom, which is tiny, just a shower stall and no bathtub, a toilet, tiny sink with a mirror above it, and one shelf for her toiletries. She turns on the shower, which is so small she’ll be in danger of poking herself on the knobs if she isn’t careful when she turns around.

She Summons shampoo, conditioner, and body wash from her trunk, and steps under the hot spray. She’d rather have a bath—she’d bet _his_ bathroom has a nice, big tub—but makes do, washing away the physical evidence of what just happened, even if she can’t eradicate the memory of it. Maybe she should ask him to Obliviate her.

But she’s determined never to ask him for anything again. Bad enough she owes her life to him. Now, she’s going to stay out of his way as much as possible. She’ll study for her NEWTs with all her other professors. She doesn’t need his help with that. Slughorn will help her with the NEWT level Potions, and she’ll practice dueling with Harry for the Defence practical. Or she could owl Remus to ask if he’ll come help her prepare for Defence.

She can do this. Studying for NEWTs will give her something to focus on, and she won’t think about the law, which requires her to have a baby within two years. Surely, they’ll have repealed it by then, and for now, she’s taken the contraceptive. 


	7. Chapter 7

Outside the castle gates, Severus sags against Lucius, who side-alonged him because Severus was in no fit state to Apparate on his own. Severus knew it would be bad when he told the Dark Lord he’d married Hermione Granger, but not this bad.

“Mipsy,” he calls hoarsely, and the elf appears with a pop.

“Oh, Master,” Mipsy says, tears filling her enormous eyes at the sight of his torn, bloody robes.

“Hospital wing,” Severus says. He prefers to treat himself in his own rooms, and often has to order the elf to take him there when she wants to take him to the hospital wing. Tonight, he knows better than to return to his rooms on his own.

But that is exactly where the elf brings him. “Mipsy,” he groans. “I said—” 

“Master is not needing the hospital wing anymore. Master has Mistress to take care of him now. Mipsy will bring Mistress,” the elf says, then pops away before he can tell her to take him to the fucking hospital wing already.

When Mipsy returns, she is holding the hand of a barely dressed Granger, whose mouth opens in shock as she realizes where she is. 

“Take me to the hospital wing,” Severus tries to say, but his voice and knees give out before he finishes, and he clutches the side of the bed to avoid falling to the floor.

“I need my wand and dressing gown,” Granger says, and the blasted elf pops away in obedience to _her_ instead of him. “What should I do?” Granger asks, kneeling beside Severus in sleep shorts and vest that leave nothing to the imagination. Not that he’s in any condition to appreciate a barely clothed witch at the moment.

“Mipsy,” Snape calls, but the elf doesn’t come.

“What should I do?” Granger asks again.

“Blood replenisher,” he says. “In the bathroom cabinet. Pain reliever. Nerve regenerator.”

She nods, goes into the bathroom and returns with the bottles. Mipsy has returned with Granger’s wand and dressing gown, but Granger motions for her to put them on the bed and opens the blood replenisher. She holds it to Severus’s lips, and he swallows all of it. She hands him the pain reliever next, then the nerve potion. When he’s finished them all, he’s shaking less, but still deathly pale. 

“Another blood replenisher?” Granger guesses, only then retrieving her dressing gown from the bed and covering herself up.

He nods. “Two more, and one more pain reliever.”

She goes to the bathroom and returns with them. “This is the last of the pain reliever. I can go to the hospital wing for more.”

He shakes his head, then starts to Vanish his outer robes but a tremor racks his body and disrupts the spell. 

Granger hesitates, then Vanishes the heavy black robe herself, followed by the frock coat and cravat. His while shirt is shredded and soaked in blood. After a brief hesitation, she Vanishes that as well, and draws in a breath at the deep cuts on his chest and arms.

“Vulnera Sanentur,” he says, chanting the incantation, and waving his wand over one of the cuts.

She nods, copies the wand motions perfectly and chants the spell with exactly the inflection he used. The gash closes, leaving a faint white scar. She repeats the incantation on each cut, until they are all healed. She expels a relieved breath, then draws in another sharply when he turns to show her his back.

“That spell only works on the deep cuts. The shallower marks require Dittany and time.” Those are from a cursed whip, and the scarring will be much worse than the cuts from Sectumsempra, since he’s not fool enough to share any spell with the Dark Lord that he doesn’t know how to reverse, or at least heal.

Granger heals the cuts on his back as she did the others, then goes to the bathroom for the Dittany. She applies it to each of the welts, and he grits his teeth so as not to make a sound. About the involuntary tensing of his muscles as the liquid touches his wounds, he can do nothing.

“Are there others?” Granger asks, glancing down at the still-clothed lower half of his body.

“No.”

“Do you need help getting into bed?”

“No,” he says again, realizing by her flinch that he said it angrily. He sighs, knowing he should apologize because she’s only trying to help, but the sooner she’s out of here, the better, and an offended Granger is more likely to leave him alone. He braces himself against the side of the bed and tries to stand, but the trembling in his legs keeps him on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” she says, turning back the bedclothes. “I know you don’t want me to do this, but you can’t just lie on the floor.” With a stubborn set to her jaw, she removes his shoes, then lifts her wand and levitates him into the bed. After she’s pulled the bedclothes over him, she hesitates, then Vanishes his trousers and socks, leaving him, mercifully, in his pants. There’s a glass on his bedside table, and she uses Aguamenti to fill it, then holds it to his lips. He glares at her, but drinks.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “Go.”

“Mipsy,” she calls, and when the elf appears, she asks, “Is there anything else that Professor Snape needs?”

“No, Mistress is taking good care of Master,” Mipsy beams.

“Is he all right to stay here alone, or should I stay?” The impertinence of that infernal woman! He told her to go, and she’s ignoring him and asking the blasted elf instead?

“Mistress should sleep with Master,” Mipsy says. “Not in that other room.”

“That isn’t what I asked,” Granger says, not looking at him. “I meant, is it safe to leave him here because of his injuries? Is he in any danger?”

“No danger,” Mipsy says, shaking her head disapprovingly. “But Mistress is belonging with Master.”

Granger ignores the elf and turns to Severus. “Will you call me if you need anything?”

“I will not need anything.”

“But if you do,” she says stubbornly.

He heaves an exasperated sigh. “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I finally figured out the logistics of the ending, which means I can write it much faster now and will be able to switch to daily posting rather than only three times a week. I didn't want to do that until I knew I wouldn't hit a wall and have to take longer breaks between posting chapters. So, let the games continue...only faster.
> 
> Many thanks to turtle_wexler as always for beta reading.


	8. Chapter 8

When Severus wakes, there is a cup of tea under a stasis charm, a crumpet, and two bottles of pain reliever on his bedside table. Granger obviously ignored what he said and went to the hospital wing for more of the potion. Why did she bother asking if she was only going to do what she wanted anyway?

He pulls himself gingerly to sit up against the headboard. He doesn’t feel as bad as he thought he would, but still bad enough to swallow half a bottle of the pain reliever. When he looks at the label, he frowns. That’s Granger’s handwriting, and today’s date. She must have brewed it herself. He added her to the wards, so she does have access to his private lab, but he didn’t give her permission to go mucking about in there. Clearly, he and Granger are going to have to discuss boundaries.

He pours milk in his tea and takes a sip. It tastes like the tea his mum used to make the Muggle way, not the elf-brewed tea he’s become accustomed to at Hogwarts. He’s missed this kind of tea. He makes it for himself once in a while, but usually can’t be bothered. He takes a bite of the crumpet, which is soft and buttery, and closes his eyes in pleasure.

Pleasure that lasts only until he hears Potter’s voice coming from the sitting room. “Are you all right, Mione?”

How dare she invite that brat to his private rooms? He throws back the bedclothes, wincing a little at the pain from the sudden movement, pulls on his dressing gown, and storms into the sitting room.

The voice is coming not from Potter himself but from his Patronus, the same stag as his father’s, naturally. “Ron and I were worried about you when you didn’t come to breakfast,” the stag says in Potter’s voice. “We just wanted to make sure you were okay. We’re sorry we upset you yesterday.”

The object of Potter’s concern is sitting on the sofa next to her hideous familiar, which has shed all over the upholstery. Granger is surrounded by books and parchment, inkstains on her fingers and a quill stuck in her hair. The remains of her breakfast are on the coffee table. She picks up her wand and casts, but only a few wisps of silver emerge. She draws a deep breath, then tries again. This time, a silver otter gambols from the end of her wand. “I’m fine, Harry, just studying for NEWTs. I’ll see you at lunch.” The otter rushes away through the wall, and Granger puts down her book and looks at him. “How are you feeling?” she asks, then adds, somewhat tentatively, “Professor?”

Severus suppresses a shudder. Having her call him that reminds him of things he’d rather not be reminded of, but he’s not going to invite her to call him Severus. He wishes she wouldn’t call him anything at all, the way she didn’t last night when she healed his injuries. “Well enough,” he says. “Why didn’t you go to breakfast?”

She bites her lip, hesitates. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

He snorts. “And it did not occur to you that your idiot friends would assume you were too battered by your ordeal with your Death Eater husband to drag yourself to the Great Hall?”

She lets out a horrified gasp.

“Or perhaps,” he sneers, “that I still had you chained up in my sex dungeon?”

“As if you’d want to,” she mutters under her breath, shooting him a disgusted glare as she gathers her books and stomps off to her room. She returns to Vanish the cat hair from the sofa and collect her breakfast dishes and take them to the kitchenette. When she returns to the sitting room, she’s gotten her temper under control, and says with exaggerated courtesy, “I apologize, Professor. I did not think about what others might assume. I will appear at all meals in future, and let my friends know that I am unharmed and that you do not in fact have a sex dungeon. Beyond that, I will share no details of our…less than romantic wedding night.”

Before he can formulate a sufficiently sarcastic reply, she sweeps off to her room and shuts the door.

Severus looks at the sofa and coffee table, which bear no evidence that witch or cat were ever there, irrationally annoyed that she has denied him even a pretext for resenting her. He retreats to his bedroom to finish his tea and crumpet, both of which are cold now. He’d rather call Mipsy for fresh tea and breakfast than reheat it with his wand, which is never as good, but he’s still brassed off at the elf for defying him last night. He hopes she’s ironing her ears right now.

He doesn’t, actually. As much as he took the piss about SPEW along with everyone else, he privately agrees with Granger about elves. It does seem like slavery, even if the creatures claim to be happy with the arrangement. Stockholm Syndrome, Granger called it in one of the flyers that his Slytherins amused themselves no end mocking. Most Purebloods have no idea what that term means, but it’s probably how some people will characterize Granger’s marriage to him, if she appears anything other than miserable and coerced.

After the debacle he made of the consummation, that’s exactly how he expected her to behave, but instead she healed his wounds, brewed him more pain reliever, and skipped breakfast to make sure he was all right. Stockholm Syndrome, indeed. 

As he always does when he fucks something up as badly as he did their wedding night, he thinks wistfully of what he has, since seeing the Muggle film a few years ago, come to think of as the Groundhog Day potion. His obsession with the potion—which he called simply the do-over potion, at the time—began on Halloween 1981. 

The idea came from a note scribbled in the margin of a very dark eighteenth century grimoire he found in a second-hand book shop. The witch or wizard who wrote it had been experimenting with a potion brewed with time sand, and designed to avoid the complications of having two versions of the time traveler, as happens with the use of a Time Turner. In theory, the potion would, rather than sending a person back to an earlier time, re-set time itself to the previous day. Only the person who had drunk the potion would remember the original version of the day when the potion was drunk, with everyone else living out the day as if it were the first time. In other words, exactly like the film, except that the spell lasted only one day, and another dose of the potion would have to be drunk to repeat the day a third time.

Severus came into possession of the grimoire in the summer of 1981, and when he read about the do-over potion, all he could think about was the day he called Lily a Mudblood, and what his life would have been like if he could start that day over. Until Halloween, it was just an _if only_ fantasy, but that night, as he sat on the floor of that ruined house in Godric’s Hollow, weeping over the body of his childhood friend and first love, he cursed himself for not trying to brew it, so he might have saved her.

Not that he could have, without time sand, but he tortured himself at the time with the accusation that he might have been able to find some, if he’d only tried hard enough.

In the years that followed, he learned that was not true. He spent years trying to gain access to time sand, which the Department of Mysteries guards jealously, but without success until the battle at the Ministry last year. Amid the chaos, Severus collected as much time sand from the ruined devices as he could, enough to start experimenting with the potion.

He didn’t have time to do much work until the summer, and even then worked slowly and meticulously because the time sand is a non-renewable resource, as far as he knows. The notes in the grimoire were not a complete recipe, just speculation about how one might be developed. The last weekend in August, he tested it on himself, taking the potion on a Saturday, and waking up on Saturday morning in his own rooms instead of on Sunday morning in the flat of the woman in whose bed he’d fallen asleep Saturday night.

He woke with a bit of a headache, but he’d work on that. The most encouraging thing was the absence of any injuries sustained on the day to be repeated. He’d deliberately nicked himself shaving on the first Saturday morning, and when he woke the next day, again on Saturday, the cut was gone. He couldn’t be sure that death would be un-done just as injuries were, as in the film where the cantankerous weatherman plunged to a fiery death and was no worse for wear the next day—or, rather, the same day all over again. The cantankerous professor was not quite confident enough of his brewing abilities to put the potion to the suicide test.

Last night, after he made a hash of deflowering Granger and before he went to confess to the Dark Lord and endure the consequences, Severus found himself wishing the Groundhog Day potion didn’t take three days to brew. He told himself he was being ridiculous, that being embarrassed in front of the wife he didn’t want was a trivial thing on which to waste precious time sand. After all, Granger seemed undamaged by the experience, and Severus’s only injury was to his pride.


	9. Chapter 9

“I’m fine,” Hermione says for at least the fourth time. “Honestly. We barely know one another is there. I have my own bedroom and bath”—bath being a misnomer, as there is no tub, she thinks resentfully—“and I’m going to be spending most of my time in the library and in private tutorials. Snape and I will barely see each other.”

“Don’t you mean _Professor_ Snape, Mione?” Ron smirks.

“Shut it, Ron.”

“Merlin, Mione, I was only teasing.”

“At least _Professor_ Snape was willing to step up and save me from being given to Dolohov or Malfoy, which is more than I can say for _some_ people.”

Ron has the good grace at least to look embarrassed. “Mum would’ve killed me. And if Fred couldn’t protect you, I couldn’t have either.”

Hermione sighs. “I know.” She was hurt that he hadn’t offered, but in the cold light of day, she understands why he didn’t, and why she has no right to be upset with him about it. 

“So he didn’t, erm—”

“Not talking about it, Ron,” she cuts him off.

“I only—”

“Nope. Not one word.”

“But Mione—” 

“Ron, I mean it. No questions. No jokes. No sarcastic remarks.” She gets enough of _those_ from her husband. “Talk about homework or your family or even Quidditch, if you must, but not about this.”

“Okay,” Ron says. “I get it.”

Hermione turns to Harry. “Do _you_ get it?”

Harry nods.

“Good. Then I’m off to see Professor Flitwick about my Charms NEWT. I’ll see you two at dinner.”

Ginny gets up and follows Hermione from the table, grabbing her arm when they reach the corridor outside the Great Hall. “That _not one word_ thing doesn’t apply to me, right?” Ginny asks, practically salivating.

“Honestly, Ginny!”

“Come on, Mione. Girlfriends tell each other this stuff.”

“Okay, _one_ thing,” she says, and when Ginny leans toward her in anticipation, Hermione whispers in her friend’s ear, “There’s no sex dungeon.”

Ginny grins. “Were you relieved, or disappointed?”

“Oh, my God,” Hermione says. She hurries off down the corridor, the sound of Ginny’s laughter following her. 

* * *

It’s after curfew and Granger still hasn’t returned to their quarters. Severus gives up trying to mark fifth year essays, and starts pacing. Granger is no longer a student, so she doesn’t have a curfew, but surely she understands that she is on the Dark Lord’s radar, and she needs to be careful. He’s not the only Death Eater in the castle, and the way his godson has been acting lately, Severus doesn’t trust the boy not to do something stupid.

When the wards shimmer and she finally enters, he asks, “Where have you been?”

“Library,” she says without looking at him, and heads for her bedroom.

“Granger.”

She stops, turns in the doorway. She’s got that mulish set of her jaw, as though she’s about to tell him off, but she just looks at him.

“I would appreciate it if you would let me know when you’re planning to return after curfew.” Before she can remind him that she’s of age and doesn’t have a curfew and it’s not the middle ages when her husband can tell her what time to be home, he adds, “As a courtesy. So that I will not worry.”

This takes the wind out of her sails. “How should I communicate with you?” she asks after a moment. “Owl? Patronus?” 

“I thought this might be the most efficient means.” He holds a slim black journal out to her. The silver monogram in the corner reads HGS. “It’s linked to mine, and whatever one of us writes, the other will see. They’re charmed so that to anyone else, the pages will appear blank.”

She nods, walks toward him and takes the journal, then starts toward her room again.

“Miss Granger.”

She stops, turns to face him. “Yes, Professor?”

“I understand that you met with the rest of the staff today to plan your exam reviews?”

“Yes.”

“When would you like to meet with me?”

“I, erm, I think I can manage the Defence exam without taking up any of your time.”

“You probably can, with an Exceeds Expectations. I would have thought you’d want an Outstanding.”

“In an ideal world, yes. But we’re not living in an ideal world, are we?”

“No,” he agrees. “We are not. Nevertheless, if you would like assistance with your Defence or Potions exam preparation, I am at your disposal.”

“Potions?”

“You can work with Slughorn if you prefer, of course.”

“But I’d be better off working with you.”

“If you want top marks, yes.”

“I accept your generous offer,” she says. “In both subjects. Shall I make a copy of my schedule with my other tutorials on it, so you can schedule Defence and Potions at your convenience?”

“That will be acceptable.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

 _Severus_ , he almost says. It’s ludicrous that they’re married and not calling each other by their given names. She isn’t his student anymore. Exam reviews aren’t classes where she would receive a grade. He heard Minerva and Filius referring to her as Hemione in the staff room, so he assumes that they and probably the rest of the staff are now on a first name basis with her. He doesn’t want to call her Miss Granger, which makes him feel like a dirty old man, and feels ridiculous calling her Mrs. Snape, since it’s a name she never wanted. Granger is what comes out when he’s not thinking about it, but it’s too casual if she’s going to continue calling him Professor.

But he doesn’t say it. Instead, he watches her go into her insultingly tiny room and close the door.


	10. Chapter 10

Granger is a remarkably considerate housemate. She never leaves her things lying about the common areas, which she uses mostly when he has classes and she won’t be in his way. She keeps the place free of cat hair, and he sees little of her familiar. When Severus is in, Granger is mostly out. If she is at home, she’s in her own rooms, which he enlarged at a time when her schedule showed that she had a tutorial with Minerva. 

He heard her draw in a surprised breath when she opened her door that evening, but she didn’t say anything, just wrote _Thank you_ in her charmed journal a few minutes later.

During their Defence and Potions tutorials, she speaks little, and only in response to direct questions. Any scheduling changes are made in writing in the charmed journals. She doesn’t act as though she’s upset with him, but her demeanor is never other than coolly polite. She asks questions, but not as many as he expected. During their lessons she makes notes in another notebook, not the one charmed so he can read it. Once, when she went to use the loo—presumably, not that she told him, and not that he asked—he sneaked a glance at it, and found that it was filled with questions and notes to look up this or that, things she thought she could find the answers to on her own and therefore decided not to ask him.

All of this is a surprise. She was such an annoying pain the arse when she was younger, with her ceaseless hand-waving and showing off and her mind-numbingly long, pedantic essays that he got used to thinking of her that way. Now that he thinks about it, though, he realizes that she wasn’t doing those things this school year, and perhaps not even the year before. He’s not sure when she outgrew being annoying, but she did, and he just failed to notice.

When she arrives for her Defence tutorial, she’s all business, as always. Her hair is tightly braided and her clothes are tight enough to be practical for dueling without being deliberately provocative. She puts her things down and waits quietly.

“Your Protego is sufficiently strong now for me to test it with spells that are darker than any you’ve previously encountered.”

She nods, picks up her wand, and casts. The shield shimmers around her.

“This is NEWT level,” he says. “You don’t get a head start.”

She drops the shield and takes a dueling stance. At his signal, she casts again, this time barely getting her shield in place before his first spell hits. He watches for her reaction. She can feel that it’s Dark, even as her shield repels it. Her expression is calculating, and then it shifts. Her eyes go dead and flat as she waits for his next attack.

She _is_ Occluding. She doesn’t do it often, and she hasn’t during a duel before, but he hasn’t used a truly Dark spell, either. It’s a good way to defend against them, just one he wasn’t sure she had in her arsenal. 

He casts again, and she deflects it easily. He takes his time, watching her reactions—or, rather, her lack of reactions—as he increases the intensity of his hexes. She’s getting tired. He can see it. He fires a series of hexes so fast and furious that her shield rips right in two. He waits while she recasts, but now she isn’t using Occlumency, obviously too tired to maintain it.

He starts slow again, gauging her reactions to the darker spells. When her shield begins to shimmer under his attack, she sends a barrage of stinging hexes at him, and he almost doesn’t get his own shield up in time.

“Fucking hell,” he says.

She smiles. The first time she’s ever smiled during one of their duels. In fact, it’s the first time he’s seen her smile since their marriage. 

“Did I say you could use offensive spells?” he asks.

“Did you say I couldn’t?” she counters.

He raises a brow. “Game on, then?”

She nods. “Game on.”

He holds back, of course. He has to, or the duel would be over instantly. But he doesn’t have to hold back nearly as much as he thought he would. He told them in class that physical fitness would amplify their magical power, and Granger, swot that she is, obviously took note and has been working out. He’s seen her schedule, seen how much time she spends beating the crap out of practice dummies in between her sessions with him. Now he’s seeing the fruit of all that preparation.

He assumes that most of the spells she’s casting are ones she’s only read about, or at best cast on the practice dummies. You wouldn’t know it, though—just as he wouldn’t have known she’d never cast that damned engorgement spell before either. Gods, when he thinks about how she could have gelded him, using a spell like that for the first time, and in anger, he shudders.

It would have made the last few weeks easier to bear if she had. He can’t get the image of her, eyes flashing, breasts heaving, out of his mind. Or the one of her on her hands and knees, muttering curses under her breath as she waited for him to take her.

That image distracts him so much that Granger is able to slip a truly nasty hex past his shield, and he lets loose a string of profanity that sends her into a fit of laughter, and while she’s laughing he disarms her easily.

“You swear like a Muggle,” she says, still laughing.

“My father’s rather dubious legacy.”

Her eyes widen. “Your father’s a Muggle?”

He nods. 

“I assumed you were Pureblood.”

“Being Sorted into Slytherin, it made things easier when people did.”

“When you were turning the air blue just now, you sounded almost like a Northerner,” she says.

“I grew up near Manchester,” he admits, not sure why he’s telling her any of this.

“Really? I’d never have guessed.”

“I never intended anyone to guess. I worked hard at ridding myself of that accent my first year at Hogwarts. Lucius Malfoy helped tremendously, playing Professor Higgins to my Eliza Doolittle.”

“You weren’t that bad, surely?”

“Not quite. My mother did her best to teach me to speak properly, but my father was the lowest sort of Manc you can imagine, and my running wild with the other street urchins didn’t do anything for my diction.”

Granger looks at him for a long moment. “Thank you for telling me about them.”

He shrugs. “You deserve to know what you’ve married into, nice upper-middle-class girl that you obviously are.”

“Only in the Muggle world.” Her lighthearted expression disappears. “In ours, I’m just a filthy Mudblood and _you_ got the short end of the conjugal stick.”

“Don’t ever use that word in my presence,” he snaps.

She’s startled, but not cowed. “Since I’m the one routinely called that slur, I really don’t think you ought to be lecturing me about who is and isn’t permitted to say the word.”

“You’re right,” he says, and notes her surprise. She expected him to keep yelling at her, he supposes. “Still, I would prefer you didn’t use it in my presence. It has…unpleasant associations.” 

“All right,” she says, then, a moment later, “What was your mother’s family like?”

“I never knew any of them. She was disowned by the Pureblood Princes because of her unfortunate marriage.”

“Prince,” she says, then gasps, “Oh, my God. _You_ ’re the Halfblood Prince!”


	11. Chapter 11

“How do you know about that?” Severus asks.

“Harry has your sixth year Potions book,” Granger says. “That’s how he’s been out-brewing me. I knew he was cheating, the git, but didn’t know he was using _your_ book to do it! I should have guessed. I really should have.”

“And how did _Potter_ of all people get his grubby hands on _my_ book?”

“Slughorn gave it to him at the beginning of the year. He and Ron thought they couldn’t take Potions because you required an O on the OWL, but then Slughorn said they could take it with just an E. Because neither of them had a book, Slughorn gave them two old copies, and the one Harry got said ‘Property of the Half Blood Prince’ and was full of all these notes that let him brew the best potion in every class, without even trying.”

“Which must have galled you no end, with your competitive nature?”

“Of course it did. God, wouldn’t it have bothered you when you were in school if some lazy slacker was showing you up in a class when you knew you were better than he was?”

“It would have,” he acknowledges. “And now I want that book back.”

“If you get it, can I borrow it to prepare for my NEWT?”

“ _If_ I get it? That book is my property, Granger.”

“Harry’s going to go spare when he realizes your younger self has been his Potions tutor,” she laughs. “And isn’t Slughorn going to be surprised when his star pupil starts turning in the substandard slop he normally does.”

“Granger, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were gloating about Potter’s impending fall from grace.”

“You better believe I am. All I’ve heard all year from Slughorn is how brilliant Harry is. I only wish I could be there when Slughorn finds out what kind of brewer he really is.” She looks thoughtful for a moment. “Muffliato is your spell.”

“It is.”

“That’s a dead useful one.”

“Many of the spells in that book are far less innocuous than that one. Those cuts you healed on me when I came back from the Dark Lord were from another spell in that book.”

“What’s it called?”

“Sectumsempra.”

“Will you show me?”

He hesitates a moment, then nods. “Since you already know the counter-curse, I suppose I may as well.” He performs the wand movements, and a gash appears on one of the practice dummies so deep that a handful of stuffing falls onto the floor. “Now you try it.”

She copies the movements perfectly, and another dummy loses its stuffing.

“Do you remember the counter-curse?”

She nods, stuffs the batting back inside the two dummies, then repairs first one then the other with the Vulnera Sanentur chant.

“Does the Dark Lord know there’s a counter-curse?” she asks.

“No.”

“So, you’re a better Occlumens than he is a Legilimens?”

Severus hesitates. Someday, the Dark Lord may command him to bring Granger before him. When that day comes, the Dark Lord needs to see a witch who trusts Severus because she believes—wrongly—that she can. He must not ever let Granger learn so much about him that she knows with certainty the truth of where his loyalty lies.

“Who taught you Occlumency?” he asks instead of answering.

“I taught myself.”

“Why?”

“At first, so I could teach Harry.”

He gives her a withering look. “Because you thought you could succeed where I had failed so spectacularly?”

She averts her eyes. “I didn’t say that.” She didn’t have to. He knows he made a hash of teaching Potter. “Knowing Harry as I do,” she continues, “I suspect that his dislike of you contributed at least as much as yours of him.”

He waits for her to ask why he dislikes Potter, but she doesn’t. “You said _at first_ you learned in order to teach Potter. What is your motivation for continuing the study?” 

She shrugs. “In a world where other people know Legilimency, it seemed like the prudent thing to do.”

He nods. That’s why he wanted to learn as well. “Were you more successful with Potter than I was?”

“Marginally. He doesn’t have the patience to truly master it.”

“But you do?”

“More than Harry anyway.”

He snorts. Understatement of the year. “And _have_ you mastered it?”

“Not completely, I assume, but since I’ve never had a skilled Legilimens test me, I really have no idea.”

He studies her. “Would you like to?”

“Yes. But not now. I’m too tired.”

“If I’m ever forced to bring you before the Dark Lord, he won’t care how tired you are.”

“I know. But the first time you do it, I’d like to be ready. Then we can try again when I’m tired or distracted, and you can compare how I do under different circumstances.”

“You’ve already been thinking about this. When were you planning on asking me?”

She averts her gaze. “I kept losing my nerve.”

“Where’s that vaunted Gryffindor courage?”

“Weren’t you uneasy at the idea of having someone rifling about in your head the first time you did it?”

“Of course.”

“Well then.”

“I’ll be gentle the first time,” he says, then cringes at his unfortunate choice of words. Her blush and averted eyes tell him that she’s remembering the same incident he is, that other first time, when he was not at all gentle.

To her credit, she doesn’t scoff or roll her eyes, just says, “Thank you. I would appreciate that.”


	12. Chapter 12

It’s Saturday morning, and Hermione is sitting between Harry and Neville at breakfast. Ron and Lav-Lav, mercifully, are engaging in their nauseating PDA further down the table. Hermione got to the Great Hall near the end of breakfast, and is just starting hers as the others are finishing theirs. She set her alarm for later than usual, wanting to be well rested before her first Occlumency lesson with Snape after breakfast.

He’s at the staff table, looking well rested and freshly showered, and has so much food piled on his plate you’d think it was Ron’s. Apparently, he had the same idea as she, being well rested and well fed before making his assault on her innermost thoughts. 

_Will_ he be gentle the first time? God, he looked as mortified as she felt when he said that. Now that she’s spent as much time around him as she has, she’s able to read him better, and she thinks he really was embarrassed. What she doesn’t know is whether the embarrassment is just at the mention of sex, because he’s an uptight prude who couldn’t find a woman’s clitoris with a Point Me spell, or whether it’s because he’s sorry he was such an insensitive ass on their wedding night. 

Until she knows, she doesn’t want him to see any of _those_ memories.

“You coming to Hogsmeade today?” Harry asks.

Hermione shakes her head. “Those NEWTs won’t pass themselves.” While this isn’t an outright lie, it isn’t the reason she’s not going to Hogsmeade either. Is an increasing level of comfort with sneaky half-truths something that just happens to people when they live with Slytherins?

“Have fun with your books,” Harry says cheekily. 

Hermione doesn’t tell him to have fun with the Half Blood Prince’s book for the last weekend he has it. Maybe she can see the memory of Snape taking it away from Harry on Monday during one of her Occlumency lessons. Now there’s an incentive for her to practice and improve, as though she needed one.

She finishes her sausage and eggs, then drinks the last of her tea. As she stands and walks toward the door, she feels rather like she’s walking toward the gallows. What made her think it would be a good idea to let a man so skilled at mind magic that he’s been pulling the wool over the Dark Lord’s eyes for years try to read her mind?

She focuses on her breathing as she walks toward the stairs that lead down to the dungeons. Long, slow breaths. Clear your mind. Focus.

When she reaches their quarters, she’s calm. She’s ready. Or as ready as she’s going to be, anyway. She sits on the sofa in the sitting room and waits. Snape was still eating when she left the Great Hall. It would be just like him to delay unnecessarily in an attempt to make her nervous.

But he doesn’t. He arrives in their quarters just a few minutes after she did. “Are you ready?” he asks.

She nods.

“This time, don’t worry about trying to hide the fact that you’re Occluding. We’ll get to that later. For now, let me see your shields as they are.”

She nods again.

He looks into her eyes, places his hand on her cheek and says, very softly, “Legilimens.”

When she had Harry and Ron cast the spell, it was obvious when they entered her mind. When Snape does, she can barely feel it. It’s like the shimmer of wards when someone who is keyed into them passes through, not the stumbling, fumbling tromping about that Ron and Harry did in there.

Her shields are set up like a library—of course, she feels Snape think, smirking. How can she _feel_ his smirk? She doesn’t know, but she can. He wanders the stacks, looking at the books on the shelves but not touching. He moves through the stacks of her mind-library as he does in the world, quiet and graceful and dangerous.

He reaches out to touch the one of the books, and she shivers. Instead of pulling the book off the shelf, he lets his fingertips trail along with spines of the books as he walks along the shelves. From some of the books, the ones containing innocuous memories, she can feel that he senses little or nothing. From some, he can sense strong emotions—anger, fear, joy, sadness. 

His finger comes to rest on one of the books, black leather with a raised silver design. Shame. It radiates from the book. She pulls the book away from his hand, and the volumes on either side move to close the gap where it was. She reshelves it, deeper in the library, and he keeps walking.

Again, he stops. This time, the emotion is curiosity. He pauses, waiting to see if she will pull the book away, but she doesn’t. He takes it from the shelf and opens it. Hermione is in the Gryffindor common room, where the prefects are telling her and the other first years where their rooms are, what the password is, what to do and not do. Hermione climbs the stairs to her room behind Lavender and Parvati, chattering excitedly. The two of them sit on one bed, continuing their conversation, while Hermione gets into her own four-poster and pulls the curtains. 

“Lumos,” she whispers, and the end of her wand emits a soft light. “Oh,” she breathes. She opens her Charms book, the one she’s read cover to cover at least twice already, and whispers, “Wingardium Leviosa” as she makes the wand movement perfectly and the textbook rises off the bed. “Finite incantatem,” she whispers, and the book lowers.

After several more spells, Snape closes the book and the scene dissipates, replaced by the library stacks. And then he’s gone, and she’s on the sofa in their sitting room, looking at him.

“For having no formal instruction, you’ve done well,” he says. It’s the first time he’s ever complimented her in any way, about anything she’s done. She’s not sure why she can’t form the words _thank you_ , but she can’t, so she just nods in acknowledgement. 

“The book you didn’t want me to see,” he says.

“You could have found it, if you had wanted to, couldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t try.”

“I told you I wouldn’t this time.”

“Thank you for keeping your promise.”

“I always keep my promises.”

“Do you? Always?”

“No,” he admits. “Not always. But I will as far as your Occlumency lessons are concerned. We’ll get to the point where I’m not going to let you hide things you don’t want me to see, where the only way for you to keep them hidden is to hide them where I can’t find them.” She tenses, and he continues, “But you’re a long way from being able to do that now. While you’re learning, I’ll use restraint. And when it’s time for me to stop using restraint, I’ll tell you.”

“I appreciate it.”

“This time, I want you to hide one of the books from me, but I’m going to keep going after it.”

“Not the same book?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

She averts her eyes. “No, not that one.”

“A different emotion, then?”

She nods, and again he murmurs the incantation and slips in, begins touching the spines of the books. The one he chooses this time is red leather, and it manifests joy. She doesn’t want him to see this one either, but it’s nowhere near as bad as the black and silver book, which contains the memories of their wedding—and their wedding night. She pulls the red leather book back, away from his hand and reshelves it. She expects him to start walking through the library looking for the red leather book, but he doesn’t. Instead, he trails his fingers along the other books nearby until he finds another one that contains joy. The cover of this one is blue.

He opens it, and Hermione is in her parents’ house and Minerva McGonagall is sitting on the sofa, explaining to the Grangers that Hermione is a witch, that all of the strange things that confused and terrified her now make sense, that she isn’t a freak of nature, that there is a place where others are like her, where she _belongs_.

The memory shifts, and the blue book is replaced by a green one, but the emotion is still joy. She’s with Harry and Ron in the Gryffindor common room after the incident with the troll. Friends. After a rocky start at Hogwarts, where she thought she’d be as much an outcast as she was at her Muggle primary school, she finally has friends.

The green book gives way to an amber one, in which Hermione walks into the Yule Ball on Viktor Krum’s arm, turning to see Ron Weasley staring at her, dumbfounded.

Snape rifles through book after book, quickly, never staying long in any of the joyous memories, until he reaches the red book, the one she hid from him earlier. She tries to pull it away again, but he’s quicker than she is, and opens it. It’s her and Snape, today, here in their sitting room. He says, “For having no formal instruction, you’ve done well.”

He pulls out of her mind and watches her, waiting.

“You didn’t look for the book, but you found it,” she says. “By following that emotion. It doesn’t matter which book you choose, as long as it’s the same emotion, it can lead you to all the others.”

“Yes.”

“But there are so many of them. It could take ages to find the specific instance of the emotion that you’re looking for.”

“A skilled Legilimens can hone in on nuances of an emotion.”

“Narrow the search parameters?”

“Precisely.”

“Is that what the Dark Lord does?”

“The less we talk about the Dark Lord, the better.”

“Why?”

He expels a breath, hesitates.

And then she understands. “Oh, God. If I can’t learn to be as good as you are, you’re going to have to Obliviate me. That’s it, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks grimmer than she’s ever seen him look, and that’s saying something.

“So, it’s better if there isn’t as much for you to go in and clean out, if you have to.”

He still doesn’t say anything.

“Then I guess we’d better get to work,” she says.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry! When I first posted this, it was an accidental re-post of Chapter 11. It's fixed now. Sorry, and MANY, MANY THANKS to mumumuji for pointing it out.

“How is your Mudblood, Severus?” 

Severus knows an answer—a verbal one, anyway—is not expected, as the Dark Lord tears into his mind in his savage, unsubtle way. Granger screaming as he deflowers her. Then he’s taking her from behind. Giving her instructions during her Potions tutorial. Watching her in the Great Hall at the Gryffindor table, talking to Potter, who sits next to her. Another meal, with Potter sitting across from Granger, talking animatedly. Granger saying good morning as she passes from her room to the door on her way out. Granger surrounded by her books on the sofa when Severus came back to their rooms unexpectedly once.

The Dark Lord pulls out, leaving Severus with a throbbing headache, as always. “You have not taken your pleasure since the first time?”

“There was little pleasure, my lord, filthy thing that she is. For the present, I am endeavoring to gain her trust, as planned.”

“By assisting her with her exam preparation and permitting her to see her friends? And not forcing yourself on her?”

“Exactly, my lord.”

“And are you succeeding?”

“It is early, yet, my lord, but I believe so.”

“Potter still trusts her?”

“Yes, my lord. He accepts that the marriage is merely for the Mudblood’s protection, so she remains in his confidence. By the time I begin to seduce her and subvert her loyalties, Potter will be accustomed to the idea that she is my wife in name only, and nothing has changed, and will suspect nothing.”

The Dark Lord turns to Dolohov. “You were wrong about Severus, Antonin. He did not want the Mudblood as a plaything, as you did. He wanted only to further my aims, with no concern for his own pleasure. He is patient, and bides his time, for _my_ sake.”

Dolohov glances at Severus, his fury barely contained, then back at the Dark Lord. “Yes, my lord.”

The Dark Lord turns to Severus. “You may do with him as you wish, my faithful servant.”

Severus bows. “My lord.” He turns his wand toward Dolohov, who cringes. He casts the Cruciatus, but the intensity is low, and he doesn’t hold it long.

“You show mercy?” the Dark Lord asks. “After what he did to you?”

“Merely restraint, my lord. Each of us, your servants, will be needed in the coming battle. Your needs outweigh my petty desire for revenge.”

“Yesssss.” The red eyes gleam and the hideous face twists in what Severus knows is the closest it can come to a smile. God, the man—if one can still use that term—is more susceptible to sycophancy that anyone Severus has ever known. “You have pleased me, Severus. Go back to your Mudblood and gain her trust, so you can tell me Potter’s plans.”

“My lord.” He bows and walks toward the door. Behind him, he hears a scream that he recognizes as Dolohov’s.

* * *

“I need to go see him!” Hermione says. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“He’s all right,” Harry says. “Lavender’s up there with him now.”

“Oh.” Reading between the lines, Hermione realizes that Harry means that Ron wouldn’t want her there. They’re at dinner in the Great Hall, and her appetite has vanished. Harry keeps eating, since teenage boys are hungry even when their best friends have nearly died from poisoned mead. 

“What about you, Hermione?” Harry asks. “Are you all right?”

“Me? Why wouldn’t I be?”

Harry glances at the staff table, where Snape’s seat is empty.

“We barely speak outside my tutorials.” She smiles. “Don’t tell anyone, but he’s actually less annoying to live with than Parvati and Lav-Lav.”

Harry snorts.

“My life is quite boring, Harry. I want to hear what’s going on with you.” She casts Muffliato. “Are you still meeting with Dumbledore?”

“Speaking of that spell, your git of a husband stole my book. And Slughorn just let him.”

“What happened?”

“Snape comes in during our Potions class, walks over to my work station and just picks up the Half Blood Prince’s book. He hands me another one, new and unmarked, and walks out.” Harry narrows his eyes at her. “What I want to know is, how did he even know about the book? Did you tell him about it?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’ve been jealous all year that I’m beating you in Potions.”

“Harry, I’m not even _in_ Potions class anymore. I’m taking my NEWT soon. Class grades are meaningless now.”

He looks at her, trying to decide whether she’s telling the truth. She is, of course, in that sneaky, Slytherin way of telling a literal truth that hides a lie by omission.

“Yeah,” Harry says finally. “I don’t suppose you’d so something that awful, even if you were jealous.”

Guilt twists inside her, but she schools her features. “I’m glad you trust me.” Another truth that conceals a lie. They come so easily now. Should she be worried about that?

“Can you come to the Room of Requirement after dinner so I can tell you what’s been going on?” 

“Yes.”

“ _He_ won’t mind?”

“Harry, I’m in the library till past curfew most nights. I told you, we—”

“Barely see each other, yeah.”

“Why is it so hard for you to believe that he’s being decent about all this?”

“Because he’s _Snape_ , who steals my book and picks on us and takes House points for no reason at all and assigns disgusting detentions and insults us and, oh yeah, is a _Death Eater_ , Hermione.”

Hermione glances around, but the spell is in place and no one else heard. “Come on.” She stands up. “Tell me what’s been happening.”

* * *

Horcruxes. _Fucking hell_ , as her husband would say. She wonders whether Dumbledore has told Snape about them. He must have. He’d be crazy not to. Surely the man isn’t relying on a teenage boy who can’t shield his mind from the Dark Lord to hunt them down and destroy them?

After Harry told her about the ring, the locket, all of it, she’d tried to work with him on Occlumency. Now that she’s better at it, she thought maybe she’d have more success with Harry, but she didn’t. He really doesn’t have the patience.

But she did learn something _extremely_ useful during that otherwise unsuccessful lesson. During one of their sessions, Snape made a caustic remark about Dumbledore eavesdropping on people’s thoughts.

“How does he do that?” Hermione asked at the time. “Doesn’t he have to use his wand, look into the person’s eyes, and cast the spell?”

“Beginners have to do that,” Snape said.

“But you do that, during our lessons.”

“In order to show you how it’s done.”

“So, you could be looking at my thoughts when I didn’t even know?”

“I could.”

“But you wouldn’t, right?” she said, biting her lip. God. The idea that he could do that…

Snape hesitated then. “No,” he said. “Unless it’s necessary.”

“What does that mean?” she demanded. She could well imagine him thinking that satisfying his own damn curiosity constituted necessity.

“If your life is in danger.”

“Oh,” she said. “Do you promise?”

He promised, and she believed him, but the idea of it made her nervous. It also made her curious to see if she could do it. She wouldn’t dare try it on Snape, of course, but during her Occlumency lesson with Harry tonight, she tried it on him. She rationalized it by telling herself that Harry was already expecting her to look at his thoughts, so it wasn’t as though she was doing it just sitting across from him at dinner or something like that, which really _would_ be unethical.

And she’d done it. On the one hand, she kind of wished she hadn’t, because he was fantasizing about Ginny in a way she really wish she could unsee—no wonder he couldn’t concentrate to Occlude!—but on the other hand, now she knew she could do it, and without Harry having any idea.

She walks slowly back toward their rooms. When she arrives, Snape is out. Just as well, since she hasn’t decided how much of what she’s learned tonight to tell him. All of it, eventually, she thinks, but probably not tonight. She needs to think first, and do some research on her own.

She walks toward Snape’s bookshelves. 


	14. Chapter 14

“Why? You don’t even like Slughorn,” Hermione says the next morning, Saturday, when she gets back from breakfast and Snape hands her the invitation. Bad enough enduring Slughorn’s stupid Christmas party, but now he’s having another party for the Vernal Equinox. Seriously? Who does that?

“Albus has requested I attend, and as I am a married man, it would appear odd if my wife did not attend with me.”

“All right then.” Hermione has spent enough time with Snape to know what those stiff, Victorian cadences mean. The more he sounds like a vicar in an Anthony Trollope novel, the more uncomfortable he feels.

“I can accompany you to Madam Malkin’s this afternoon,” he says.

“I can Transfigure something.”

“You can, but you will not. My wife is not going to wear some tacky Transfigured hand-me-down.”

“All right, but you don’t have to go with me.”

“Yes, I do. First, God only knows what you’d come back here with, and—”

“You think I have no taste? Just for that, I’m wearing pink.”

“And second, you are a target.”

“Oh.” That stops her in her tracks. 

“And you will not wear pink.”

“Green?”

“Or black,” he smirks. “Either will be acceptable.” 

“Red?”

“Out of the question.”

“Gold?”

“Legilimens!”

“What the hell?” she gasps, shoving him out of her mind. She doesn’t want him to find out about the Horcruxes like this. She wants to see if she can keep it from him, and then tell him when she chooses to.

“I told you I was going to start testing you at random times, without warning.”

He did. But he hasn’t done it till now. At least she was able to throw him out. Then it hits her. “You let me do that.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“If you want to know, find out,” he taunts.

She picks up her wand. “Legilimens.” When her head stops spinning, she’s sitting on the floor. “Ow. Fuck. What was that?”

“ _That_ was what happens when curious witches want to know things that aren’t any of their business.”

She gets to her feet. “Git.”

“So they say.”

“If I can get in, and stay in, I wear red to Slughorn’s party, and _you_ wear a red cravat.”

“I most certainly will not.”

“So, you’re worried I _can_ get in?”

He narrows his eyes. “ _If_ you can get in, and _stay_ in. Which you will not.”

* * *

Hermione looks at the selection of black and green dress robes hanging in Madam Malkin’s fitting room. House affiliation aside, she doesn’t actually like red all that much, and in truth she looks better in green or black, but she couldn’t resist the idea of teasing Snape.

It took two and a half bottles of headache potion to dull the pain after her fruitless and embarrassing attempts to get into his mind and stay there long enough to see anything. She’d got overconfident, and that was a salutary reminder. She isn’t anywhere near ready for the Dark Lord, but she damn well will be.

“How long does it take to put one of those on?” Snape complains from outside the fitting room.

She finishes tugging the too-tight green robes over her hips. The neckline is so low she might as well go topless. “This one’s a no,” she calls.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“No, you won’t, unless you want your wife looking like she works at a Knockturn Alley brothel.” She takes it off and puts on another. This one is black satin, covering enough of her breasts to meet the demands of modesty, but Merlin, the way it hugs her curves. It’s beautiful, but is it appropriate?

“Come on, Granger, we don’t have all day.”

What is it about men and shopping that turns them into two-year-olds? She opens the fitting room door and steps out. Seeing the dress in the full-length three-way mirror, she realizes it’s even more provocative than she thought. Though it’s not only the way the dress looks that tells her. It’s the way that _Snape_ looks. From three different angles, it’s unmistakable that he’s staring at her the way Ron stares at the last piece of treacle tart.

She licks her lips and swallows. His eyes slide down the length of her body and back to her face.

“I’ll go put on the next one.” Her voice comes out shakier than she’d like.

“That won’t be necessary. This one is…acceptable.”

“It’s not too…?” she searches for the right word.

“I said it was acceptable,” he says, Occluding now. 

But why? Hermione turns back to the mirror, back to the view of her in that dress from all sides, and she knows why. 

“What are you waiting for, Granger?” Snape sounds bored. “Witches. You’d spend all day shopping, if you could.”

She smiles as she goes back into the fitting room. He knows she doesn’t waste her time on fashion magazines and shopping. This show of boredom, like the Occlumency and the sarcasm and the Victorian vicar syntax, is part of his armor.

She draws in a breath. Armor. That’s all his insulting remark before the Binding was. It was his way of deflecting and defending when Ron and Harry implied he was a dirty old man for marrying her. That’s why he acted as though he wanted nothing to do with her. Not because he actually found her disgusting, or even unattractive.

When she drapes the black dress robes over the top of the fitting room door, Snape takes the garment so he can pay for it and says, “I’ll meet you up front.”

“All right.” She steps into her jeans. 

Before Snape said what he did about her in the Headmaster’s office, she was nervous about the consummation, naturally, but also, if she’s being honest, curious. Once they agreed to marry, she was determined to make the best of it, and since that included learning something new—and there is nothing Hermione Granger loves more than learning something new—well, then she might as well be all in and learn it properly.

Until she realized—wrongly, she knows now—that her husband found her repulsive. At that point, her wounded pride won out over her curiosity, and she became silent, refusing to look at him, her body language telling him in no uncertain terms that she was lying back and thinking of England. That was _her_ armor.

And then, adding injury to insult, she chose not to tell him it was her first time. Small wonder he…deflated. Who wouldn’t have, under the circumstances? 

During the weeks since, they’ve both avoided any mention of that horrendous night, and have, for the most part, been courteous and considerate toward one another. They’ve gotten past the initial embarrassment, and the more time that passes, the less awkward things are. Since that night, her husband has given not the slightest hint that he sees her as a sexual being.

Until today, when he looked at her in those dress robes. She’s not entirely sure how she feels about that. In the moment, her first reaction was surprise, followed immediately by a flush of satisfaction—what woman doesn’t want to feel attractive, after all? Then—and she really would prefer not to admit this, even to herself—just the tiniest smidgen of arousal, accompanied by the thought that Snape wasn’t actually as unattractive as she’d always thought. Which is absurd. He isn’t the least bit attractive, with his greasy hair and beaky nose and insulting remarks. 

Only now that she thinks about it, she realizes that his hair hasn’t been looking all that greasy lately, and there are no more insulting remarks now that she isn’t his student. There’s still the unfortunate nose and crooked teeth, but on the other side of the ledger are his exquisite hands, and that incredible voice. Also, she’s come to realize after spending so much time looking into them during Occlumency lessons, he has rather lovely eyes.

Wonderful, she thinks. One more thing she has to hide from him during Occlumency lessons. 


	15. Chapter 15

She stole from him. She set him on fire. What else is Severus going to find out that his wife has done to him during her diabolical childhood?

He’s stayed away from any book containing shame. He’s caught glimpses of the black and silver book, but ignored it. He wants to build her confidence, let her get comfortable with him in her mind, establish trust. For now.

“When you looked into Potter’s and Weasley’s minds, what did you see?” he asks at the beginning of their fourth Occlumency lesson.

“A mess,” she says with a fond smile. “It was like the Room of Lost Things.”

Why is he not surprised she knows about that? “So, when a Legilimens sees your library, instead of the kind of mess you found in Potter’s brain, he’ll know you’re Occluding.”

She nods.

“Can you make me believe you aren’t?”

“I’ve been practicing, but I don’t know how convincing it’ll be.”

“Show me,” he says, and raises his wand.

The mess isn’t anywhere near as bad as the one in Potter’s mind—which Severus has also been in, unfortunately—but it’s haphazard enough to fool a mediocre Legilimens. Not him, and not the Dark Lord. But someone with merely above average skill, like Bellatrix (who _thinks_ she’s a master Legilimens, but isn’t) would be taken in. It’s actually quite impressive for someone who until recently was entirely self-taught. He won’t tell her that, of course. He doesn’t know what he was thinking, giving her such ridiculously effusive praise during their first lesson, but he won’t let it happen again.

 _I heard that_ , Granger gloats. She doesn’t actually say it aloud, but pushes the thought forward so he’ll sense it. He didn’t realize she could do that, since she hasn’t done it before. He also didn’t realize she could sense his thoughts the way she obviously did. He can shield them, of course, just didn’t think he had to. He assumed that maintaining the pretense of not Occluding would absorb her entire concentration. At this point in her training, he had no idea she would be able to multitask.

He wanders in the carefully constructed “mess” in her mind. Emotions whirl at random, with no discernible pattern. He catches a glimpse of a gap-toothed Granger at Muggle primary school, Granger casting Sectumsempra on the practice dummies a few weeks ago, a slightly younger Granger sending a flock of killer canaries at Weasley—he doesn’t hide his laughter at that one—Granger with her parents, with Potter, with a multitude of Weasleys at the Burrow, with Viktor Krum—he _does_ hide the unexpected flash of jealousy at the sight of that Bulgarian lout’s mouth on hers.

He moves on, watching Granger in second or third year easily Transfiguring things in Minerva’s class while her classmates produce monstrosities like teacups with tails. He snorts at the inane drivel Granger had to listen to while rooming with Brown and Patil. He sees Granger send Dolores Umbridge to be dealt with by the centaurs, and feels not the slightest shred of remorse from her, only a grim satisfaction.

Fucking hell. If the Dark Lord had any idea what he was dealing with in Hermione Granger, he’d have made her a target years ago.

When Severus withdraws, Granger doesn’t look smug, as he expected her to. She isn’t Occluding, but practice with Occlumency has muted her natural tendency to broadcast her emotions. Now, her expression is neutral.

“Acceptable,” he says.

She nods, doesn’t look disappointed at not being told she’s wonderful.

“The memories I saw were arranged randomly,” he says. “An average Legilimens might not notice, but in an untrained mind, one finds the _appearance_ of randomness, which is why you assumed that’s what you were seeing in those two dunderheads’ minds.”

“The _appearance_ of randomness?”

“I’ll show you. Cast the spell.”

“You want me to…?”

“Perform Legilimency on me, yes.”

She hesitates.

“I assure you, Granger, you will not see anything I do not wish you to see.”

“Right. Of course.” She picks up her wand, raises her hand, but hesitates, her fingers a few inches from his face. He nods, and she licks her lips, then lays her hand against his cheek. “Legilimens.”

He’s teaching first year Potions, bored out of his mind. The memory shifts to a staff meeting, Albus blathering on, Severus bored. Then he’s marking essays, bored again, until he gets to Potter’s. He reads, eyes narrowing, then burrows in the stack of marked essays, finds Granger’s, skims it, looks back at Potter’s, and scrawls a red T on it.

Now Severus is watching a Quidditch game, realizing his robes are on fire. Then at the leaving feast, where Albus announces some ungodly number of points for Gryffindor and steals the House cup once again. Then he’s in the Shrieking Shack with Granger and the dunderheads, the mutt, and the werewolf. 

When Lupin transforms, the memory shifts, and a very young Severus is before the Dark Lord. He’s gangly, with acne standing out starkly against his pale face. He’s doing his damndest not to piss himself in terror.

 _That’s enough_. He pushes the thought toward her, and she withdraws. She appears to be processing what she’s seen, and he waits.

“It’s the emotions again,” she says. “They tie the memories together, but because memories contain more than one emotion, the shifts are rapid enough that it only appears random.”

He nods, waits for her to continue. 

“You were bored in the first few memories, but then you got angry when you saw Harry’d copied my essay, and then came a few angry memories, until Remus transformed and you were afraid, which led to the Dark Lord.”

“Yes.”

“And you deliberately chose memories with more than one emotion, so that the shifts would happen, and appear random.”

“Yes. Now you try it.”

“Can I have a minute to find the appropriate memories?”

“The Dark Lord will not give you a minute.”

“I know that. But I’m still learning.”

“Take your minute, then.” He stands. “Actually, it’s nearly noon. We can continue after lunch.”

She stands and heads toward the door.

“I’m ordering lunch here,” he says. “You may stay, if you wish.”

“And let people think I’m chained up in your sex dungeon?” she says, then is out the door before he can gather his wits to respond. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'm glad I had written so many chapters ahead when I started posting faster. I am having a great deal of trouble with the ending. I am grateful to my wonderful beta reader, turtle_wexler, for telling me honestly that Chapter 47 did not work. She was right. I rewrote it, and like it so much better now. I'm still struggling with the last few chapters, but I'm getting there.
> 
> Many thanks to all of you who are reading and commenting.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several readers have remarked on my line in Chapter 14 about Snape sounding like a vicar in an Anthony Trollope novel. Imagine my surprise when I discovered, after a recent conversation in PMs, that Alan Rickman actually _played_ one in the 1980s BBC production of _Barchester Chronicles_! I had no idea. I read Trollope’s _Barchester Towers_ many years ago and vividly remember the unctuous and duplicitous Mr. Slope—a truly Slytherin clergyman if ever there was one—but had only the novels and not the Rickman portrayal in mind when I wrote the line.

She probably shouldn’t have said that about the sex dungeon, not when she’s planning on showing him what she knows about the Horcruxes after lunch. Not right away. At first, she’s going to show him other memories, see if she can keep the ones about the Horcruxes hidden. Also, the embarrassing thoughts she had in Madam Malkin’s dressing room.

Harry would go spare if he knew she was going to tell Snape about the Horcruxes. Harry still refuses to believe that Snape is loyal to the Order, thinks Dumbledore is wrong to trust him. Hermione knows better. If Snape was a loyal Death Eater, he certainly wouldn’t be trying to teach her how to keep the Dark Lord out of her mind.

She knows she’s taking a terrible risk, but she’s not only thought about it long and hard, she’s also done the arithmancy, which confirms her intuition. 

When she gets back to their rooms, Snape is all business, wand in hand. “Ready?”

She nods, and shows him an apparently disorganized mind. The first memory is of their last Potions tutorial, where she’s frustrated because she made a mistake, which leads to frustration at Harry when she was trying to teach him Occlumency, which shifts to compassion at Harry’s own frustration. This leads to several other scenes where she’s comforting her friends about various trivial things, but compassion shifts to love in a memory of Harry, which leads to several scenes with her parents. Then her parents are telling her she shouldn’t go back to Hogwarts, that it’s too dangerous, and she’s afraid that they won’t allow her to go back. That fear leads to the battle at the Ministry and Dolohov’s curse, and then her fear at receiving the marriage proposal from Dolohov, followed by relief when Fred’s proposal arrived.

Snape withdraws. “Do that again, the same apparent randomness, with memories connected by similar emotions, but this time instead of letting you determine which memory leads to the next, I’ll use those emotions as gateways to find memories I want to see.”

She takes a breath, nods. She shows him the Care of Magical Creatures class where Draco got himself bitten by the Hippogriff, then feels herself suddenly pulled toward other memories where she has the same feeling of smug exasperation at someone else’s foolishness. Snape doesn’t stay in any of the memories long, and she’s almost dizzy from the glimpses that follow of Ron, Harry, Lavender, Neville, Ginny, her mother, the maths teacher at her primary school, Trelawny, each with snatches of conversation that don’t interest Snape so he keeps racing past. When she gets to a memory of one of their third year Potions classes, he stops. In the memory, Hermione is exasperated at Harry for antagonizing Snape and costing Gryffindor points needlessly. 

Snape stays in that memory, watching, until Hermione raises her hand to answer a question and Snape ignores her, calling on every student who’s averting their eyes in an effort _not_ to be called on, and then, finally, asks Draco, who didn’t have his hand raised. Memory Hermione’s anger takes him to other scenes from his classes over the years, times where he was unfair or insulting and she was resentful. Then comes the scene where Draco hexed her teeth and Snape sneered, “I see no difference.” Here, the anger was tinged with shame, which pulls them into the memory of their wedding night.

She throws every memory she can think of at him in an attempt to get both of their minds away from her naked self. She isn’t sure whether she succeeded or he allowed it, but the memory shifts, and she’s shouting at Ron about how he waited till the last minute to ask her to the Yule Ball, and seemed astonished that anyone else would ask her. 

Then she’s upset with Harry about the Half Blood Prince’s book, then they’re in Potions class with Slughorn when Harry wins the Felix Felicis, which leads to her conversation with Harry about using the Felix to get Slughorn’s memory.

She pulls Snape quickly away from that one, which will lead straight to the conversation about the Horcruxes, but he doesn’t want to be pulled, keeps going back to that conversation. She keeps throwing memories at him, but he bats them out of the way like flies, and holds tight to the one she doesn’t want him to see. He’s going to see it. She’s going to fail. She’ll never be good enough to survive the Dark Lord’s Legilimency. But she has to be. She has to. 

Suddenly, she’s on her hands and knees, naked before him, and instead of returning immediately to the conversation about Slughorn, the way he did after all her other attempts, Snape stays in this memory. She feels him enter her, slowly, feels her inner walls stretching to accommodate him as he sheathes himself inside her, then stills, waiting.

She wants to move to another memory, but fears he’ll go back to Slughorn if she does, so she stays here, lets him feel her anger and embarrassment that the only way he can bear to take her is by not looking at her. Burning with shame, she lets him feel her surprise when his hands grip her hips because she thought he couldn’t bear to touch her at all. Why else had he used that lubrication spell? It was his own stupid fault the ingredient was ruined, since if he could have brought himself to touch her, he wouldn’t have had to use it.

In the memory, he begins to move inside her, and because she knows he’ll feel her pleasure when her memory self starts to feel it, she throws him out of her mind.

Both of them are breathing hard when they face each other in the sitting room. She averts her eyes, gratified that she kept him away from the Horcrux memory, but mortified at what she had to resort to in order to do it.

Her eyes are on her hands, twisting in her lap. She forces her hands to lie still, uses the breathing exercises she’s learned to bring her pulse back to normal.

“That isn’t why,” he says.

She doesn’t look up. She can’t.

“Hermione.”

At his use of her first name, she does look up, her lips parting in surprise.

“That isn’t why I used that spell.”

“I know.”

He frowns. “You do?”

“I didn’t at the time, but I figured it out eventually.”

“What do you think you figured out?”

“That you didn’t mean those insulting things you said before the Binding ceremony, but I was too stupid to realize it, which made me act the way I did even though you were marrying me to save my life and knew you were going to get tortured for it.” She sighs. “Small wonder you were more concerned about the loss of valuable potions ingredients than about me.”

He grimaces. 

“I should have told you it was my first time,” she says.

“I should have asked.”

“Can we agree that we were both partially at fault? That it was a misunderstanding?”

“Yes.” He hesitates. “And I’m sorry for my part in it.”

“I’m sorry for mine too, Severus.”

He smiles then. Just a small one, and fleeting. But it’s the first time she’s ever seen him smile.

“There’s a memory I’d like to show you.” She pauses. “I suppose I don’t need to show you, but I do want to tell you about it. It’s the one you were trying to see, with Harry and Slughorn.”

“Why would you try so hard to keep it from me if you were going to tell me about it anyway?”

“To test myself, to see if I could.”

“What was the memory about?”

“Horcruxes.”


	17. Chapter 17

As Severus prepares his private lab for the third and final day of brewing the Groundhog Day potion, his mind is racing. When the Dark Lord did not die on Halloween 1981, Severus assumed it was because he must have made a Horcrux. When he returned, Severus knew he’d been right. But it never occurred to him that the bastard had made more than one. The fact that he returned in barely human form, halfway down the road to madness, Severus attributed it solely to the manner in which he was nearly killed and then resurrected. He shouldn’t have. He knows better than to assume anything. Making assumptions can get you killed.

The cursed ring that is slowly killing Albus was one of the Horcruxes. The diary that Potter destroyed four years ago was another. Slytherin’s locket, not yet found, is a third. How many are there? How many times can a soul be split before a person goes stark raving mad?

Does Albus know how many there are? If so, he hasn’t told Potter, or Granger would know. But he’s told Potter more than he’s told Severus. Why? Does he not trust Severus to keep the knowledge from the Dark Lord? What else has the old man not told him? 

But Granger told him. She does trust him. More than she trusts Albus, apparently, because she asked him not to tell Albus that she told him. She doesn’t want Potter to know. So, she’s keeping secrets from Potter, but not from him. Why? If Severus was, in fact, pursuing the aim that he told the Dark Lord he was, he’d be succeeding admirably.

Once the cauldron and all the ingredients are laid out and ready, Severus closes his eyes and breathes deeply, clearing his mind. Time sand is too valuable for him to brew while preoccupied. This is the first time he’s brewed it since he perfected and tested it. It’s the kind of thing that would be very handy to have on hand in case of emergencies, but its shelf life is too limited for him to justify keeping a supply brewed. Now, knowing that he’s going to have to bring Granger before the Dark Lord sometime soon, it’s worth brewing, especially since he’s come to a decision about Granger’s Occlumency.

He doesn’t want to Obliviate her. She’s learned so much, and he’d hate to see it all undone. She’s extremely good for someone who was until recently entirely self-taught. She may well be good enough soon to fool the Dark Lord, but he can’t be certain, and it’s a terrible risk to take.

After much deliberation, he decided that the next time he is Summoned, he will show the Dark Lord the memory where he wonders whether Granger might be Occluding, then the one where he asks her if she’s studied Occlumency, followed by the most spectacular of her failures, the times when he has pushed through her shields easily, and always when she has the library shields up, never when she is projected an apparently random, unshielded mind. To make sure there are enough of these, he had Granger deliberately put up a weak library shield during their last Occlumency session, and warned her that he was going to break through it, and to let him, while appearing that she was doing her best to keep him out. She didn’t ask why, but he could practically see the wheels turning as she guessed.

If he is successful, any evidence of Occlumency the Dark Lord sees will be dismissed as Granger’s pathetic attempt to keep him out, which will fail, and once the Dark Lord is through her pitifully weak library shield, Granger can use the more advanced techniques. If the Dark Lord suspects her abilities exceed what Severus led him to suspect, it can be chalked up to additional study Granger has been doing on her own. The Dark Lord will be angry that Severus underestimated her, but he will also be smug and self-satisfied at his own superior ability to recognize what the girl is doing. It’s a rather convoluted strategy, but the best he can come up with.

Now, once his mind is clear, he consults the instructions for the potion, which he knows by heart but re-reads anyway, and begins preparing the ingredients. 

As he chops, grates, and pulverizes, he does not think about the Horcruxes or the Dark Lord or Granger. He thinks only about each ingredient as he prepares it, returning to the instructions before beginning each new component. Only when the brew is simmering does he allow his mind to return to the Horcruxes. How will they ever find out what they are, never mind destroy them, if they don’t even know how many of them there are? How is Albus planning to find out? Sending that idiot Potter to ferret the information out of Slughorn is really the best he can do? And what did they find out? Only that the young Tom Riddle wanted to know about Horcruxes, plural.

He checks the instructions. Five more minutes, then thirteen clockwise and two anti-clockwise stirs, simmer for another fourteen minutes, then five clockwise and—

Fucking hell. He’s being Summoned _now_? The potion will be ruined. Fuck, fuck, fuckity-fuck. He can’t ignore the Dark Lord, but he won’t waste this time sand. He sighs. There’s nothing for it. He opens the black journal with the silver STS monogram in the corner, the one that’s paired by charm with Granger’s, and writes, _Come to my lab immediately. It’s urgent._

He’s about to cast a Patronus as well, since every second counts when you’re keeping the Dark Lord waiting, but _On my way_ appears in the journal and he sighs in relief.

“I’ve been Summoned,” he says when she gets to the lab. He checks the timer. “When the timer chimes in two and a half minutes, give the potion thirteen—”

“Clockwise and two anti,” Granger finishes, reading from the instructions. 

“Then set another timer and—”

“I can follow the instructions.”

“Granger, this isn’t just any potion.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it, as though thinking better of what she was about to say. “I understand. I’ll read the instructions carefully at each step, and follow them to the letter.”

“After it’s cooled and bottled, bring it back to our quarters,” he says, then sets off at a near-run for their quarters to retrieve his Death Eater robes and mask. 

* * *

The corridors are deserted when Hermione leaves the library. After she finished the potion, let it cool, and took it back to their quarters, Severus still wasn’t back. Rather than sit and wait for him, impatient to ask what the potion was, she went to the library to check out a book she needs for a Runes translation she can’t quite figure out.

Preoccupied by the translation, she almost doesn’t hear the sounds coming from Moaning Myrtle’s lavatory as she passes by. The sound isn’t the ghost’s moans and sobs. She stops, listens. She moves closer to the lavatory door, making sure her footsteps are silent, and stops right outside. It’s definitely crying. Human crying, not ghost crying. She pushes the door open and peers inside.

She’s astonished to see Malfoy on his knees, sobbing. His back is to her, but that platinum hair can only belong to him. She hesitates, unsure whether to stay or go. Anyone else, she’d either try to comfort them or give them privacy. Malfoy wouldn’t want her comfort, of course, would only tell her to _bugger off, Mudblood_ , or the like. 

Harry is convinced that Malfoy is a Death Eater, and that he’s planning something nefarious. Harry doesn’t know the details, despite spending more time tracking Malfoy on the Marauders’ Map than he does studying, or so it appears to Hermione from listening to Harry.

If she performed Legilimency on Malfoy, would he feel it? Or would his obvious distress preoccupy him sufficiently that she could slip in without his noticing? If he does feel it, she’ll have to Obliviate him. If he is a Death Eater, she can’t risk him telling the Dark Lord about her ability. Even if he isn’t, he’d tell his Death Eater father.

She slips out of the lavatory, walks a few paces down the corridor, then stops. “Bye, Harry,” she calls, then, walking back toward the lavatory, “I’m going to stop in the loo. I’ll see you at breakfast.” She waits a moment, then pushes the door open. “Oh, Malfoy!”

Malfoy glares at her, tears dried now, but his eyes are red.

Hermione takes a breath, grips her wand her wand in her pocket. “Are you all right?” she asks, then thinks the incantation, the way she did with Harry. 

Malfoy’s emotions are so intense, they almost hurt. Fear that the Dark Lord will kill him or his mother. Pain as he recalls being Marked. Regret that he didn’t find a way to avoid it. Anxiety that he won’t be able to kill Dumbledore, which cycles back to fear for his life and his mother’s.

“What do you care, Mudblood?” he asks, stalking toward the door.

She slips out. She did it. He didn’t know. “Malfoy,” she says.

He stops. “What do you want, Granger?”

“Whatever it is, Severus can help. You should talk to him.” She’s still getting used to the idea of calling her husband _Severus_ , both in conversation with him and in her thoughts.

“Oh, that’s rich, Granger. Talk to your _husband_ ,” he sneers.

“He’s also your godfather, isn’t he?”

“He didn’t let that fact stop him from marrying you,” Malfoy scoffs.

“Why did you propose, Malfoy?” she asks. Gripping her wand in her pocket and thinking the incantation again, she feels frustration, jealousy, desire. 

“Why do you think?”

In his mind, she sees glimpses of his fantasies about her. Not just filthy sexual ones—though there are those, too, unfortunately—but also a genuine desire to protect her. He actually _cares_ about her, she realizes with a start.

“I don’t know, Malfoy,” she says. “I thought you hated me. Why would you want to marry someone you hate?”

He looks at her, and in his mind, she can see him seething with jealous rage at his godfather. In the moment, he turns that rage on her, stalking toward the door. “Why don’t you fuck off back to your greasy old husband, Granger,” he says, roughly jostling her as he passes by on his way out.

Malfoy is trying to kill the Headmaster. The cursed necklace. The poisoned mead. What will he try next? Something in the Room of Requirement. Harry says Malfoy’s in there a lot, that he disappears from the Marauders’ Map in the corridor outside the Room. 

She walks back to her rooms—finally, she thinks of them that way now—through the deserted corridors. Mrs. Norris appears around a corner up ahead, with Filch not far behind. “Evening, Mrs. Snape,” he says, courteous as always since her marriage.

“Good evening, Mr. Filch,” she replies, and almost adds that she saw a student out after hours, headed toward the dungeons, but decides that Malfoy has trouble enough without a detention for being out past curfew. 

Severus is out when she gets back to their rooms. She takes out her Runes text and curls up on the sofa in front of the fire to study and wait for him so she can tell him about Malfoy. Soon, she’s engrossed in her translations, and feels a flash of annoyance when the door opens just as the vexing symbols are beginning to arrange themselves into a pattern that’s almost comprehensible.

Her irritation evaporates when she sees Severus enter in his Death Eater robe and toss the awful silver mask onto an armchair.

“The potion?” he asks.

“On your desk.”

He glances at it, then says curtly, “Go to your room.”

“Why? Severus, I wanted to talk to you about—”

“Granger,” he growls, low and dangerous. “Go. To. Your. Room.” She feels an involuntary shiver. His eyes are even blacker than usual, pupils dilated, and they glitter with predatory malice as she stands to face him. His gaze slides down her body before returning to her face, the way it did at Madam Malkin’s. No, not the same way. The desire is here, now as then, but the look he gave her in the shop was a brief glimpse of admiration and attraction. This is something else entirely. This is lust, a naked hunger so palpable that it takes her breath away.

For one brief, mad moment, she wants to tell him no, she’s not going to her room, and see what happens. The tinder is the curiosity that nags at her that she’s a married woman who knows nothing about sex and from the looks of things possibly never will. The spark that ignites it is the way her husband is looking at her. No one has ever looked at her this way. She wants to know what it’s like, being the object of this kind of desire.

“Go,” he says hoarsely. “Now. Please, Hermione.”

That _please_ breaks the spell, as she watches concern war with desire in his eyes. She turns and walks rapidly toward her bedroom.

“Lock your door,” he says. 

She does, hand trembling on her wand as she casts the wards. He’s been with the Dark Lord, obviously. But he’s been Summoned several times in the weeks they’ve been married, and he’s never acted like this. Sometimes he’s Occluding when he returns. She wonders why he isn’t now. Is whatever it is he’s feeling too powerful, too overwhelming for him to Occlude? She’ll ask him tomorrow. For tonight, she’ll remain here, safe from whatever her husband was afraid he might do to her.


	18. Chapter 18

Hermione wakes early, showers, and settles on the sofa with a cup of tea to work on her Runes translations, but she can’t really focus. Severus hasn’t made an appearance, and she suspects he’s waiting till she’s gone to breakfast before coming out of his room. She’ll miss breakfast entirely if she doesn’t go soon. She hesitates, torn between curiosity and guilt over keeping the poor man trapped in his room by sitting here like a vulture.

She picks up her bag and leaves, walking quickly through the dungeon corridor and up the stairs to the Great Hall.

“We were making bets on whether you’d make it,” Lavender says, her arm looped through the one of Ron’s that isn’t shoveling bacon and eggs into his mouth.

“I lost,” Ginny says. “My galleons were on the sex dungeon.”

Harry chokes on his pumpkin juice. “God, Ginny, what did I tell you about that?”

Ginny laughs and snuggles closer to Dean, who gives Ginny a kiss on the cheek and winks at Harry. “Just have to tune her out, mate.”

Ginny smacks Dean’s arm. “Prat.”

Harry looks down at his breakfast. After a few bites, he says to Hermione, “So, what were you doing in Moaning Myrtle’s lav with Malfoy last night?”

“Being insulted, mostly. Honestly, Harry, if you spent half as much time on your schoolwork as you spend stalking Malfoy on that map,” she begins, then falls silent, as the awful thought occurs to her that if she hadn’t done as Severus asked and gone to her room last night, if she’d ended up spending the night in his bed, Harry would have known about it, if he’d cared to look. The thought makes her slightly queasy. Between Legilimency and artifacts like that stupid map, witches and wizards really don’t have a lot of privacy, compared to Muggles.

“What’s wrong, Hermione?” Harry asks.

“Nothing.” It comes out angrier than she intended.

“Did I do something?” he asks.

She tries to muster a reassuring smile. “No, Harry.” She looks up at the staff table, where Snape’s chair is empty, as she knew it would be. “You didn’t do anything.”

Ron’s gaze follows hers. “Did _he_? Where is the bat, anyway?”

“Installing some new toys in the sex dungeon, probably,” Ginny says.

“Merlin’s balls, Ginny,” Ron says. “If you don’t want me to tell Mum about the things that come out of your mouth, you need to shut it.”

“That’s right, Ickle Ronnikins, run and tell Mummy,” Ginny taunts.

Hermione pushes her plate back. “I’m going to have breakfast in my rooms.”

“With the bat?” Ron says.

“At least he keeps his mouth shut most of the time and I can get some peace and quiet,” she says, and stalks out of the Great Hall. 

She missed her friends so much at first, but now she finds them hard to take, at least in large numbers. She’s grown accustomed to having more solitude—lying down to sleep in a quiet room instead of with Parvati and Lavender chattering about trivialities, studying in front of the fire with the only sound her quill or her husband’s, or one of them turning pages. She and Severus talk little, when they aren’t working on Occlumency or her NEWT tutorials. Hermione keeps quiet because she’s trying to be a considerate housemate. She isn’t sure whether Severus does it for the same reason, knowing she needs to study, or simply because he doesn’t find her interesting enough to talk to when it isn’t required. She tells herself that possibility shouldn’t bother her, but it does. 

When she gets back to their rooms, Severus looks up from his breakfast in surprise—and, if she’s not mistaken, consternation.

“Don’t worry,” she says, continuing on toward her bedroom. “I’m not going to try to talk to you.” She goes in and closes the door behind her. “Mipsy,” she calls.

Mipsy appears. “Would Mistress like breakfast with Master?”

“No, I would like breakfast in here, please.”

“There is being no table in here. Mistress is eating with Master at the table,” the elf says.

“Tea and toast and raspberry jam. On a tray. In here. Do I make myself clear, Mipsy?” she asks in the kind of voice she thinks is horrible when other people speak to elves that way.

“Yes, Mistress.” Mipsy twists her ear and pops away. When she returns a moment later with the tray, Mipsy looks at Hermione the way dogs probably look at masters who kick them, and mutters something under her breath that is probably going to make the poor thing feel compelled to iron her ears later.

“Thank you, Mipsy,” Hermione says politely. “And I appreciate your concern. Really, I do. But I don’t think Professor Snape wants my company right now.”

“Masters is not always knowing what is good for them,” Mipsy says, “and neither is Mistresses.” And then the elf is gone.

As Hermione is spreading jam on her toast, there’s a knock at the door. “Come in,” she says.

When Severus sees the breakfast tray, he says, “You can eat at the table like a civilized person, you know.”

“I’m trying to give you some privacy. I meant to stay away for all of breakfast, but as you know, my former Housemates can be…trying, at times.”

“I do know.” He walks to the bed and picks up the breakfast tray. “Come.”

She follows him out and sits at the table. They eat in silence for a few minutes, until Hermione says, “I talked to Malfoy last night. That’s why I was waiting up for you.”

He tenses. “Did he harm you?”

“No. He was crying.” When Severus looks astonished, but says nothing, waiting for her to continue, she says, “I found him in Moaning Myrtle’s lavatory, and before he realized I was there, I, erm, well, I—”

“Why do I think I’m not going to like what you’re stammering about instead of telling me?”

“I performed Legilimency on him.”

“Fucking hell, Granger, are you insane?” 

“It’s all right. He didn’t know.”

Severus frowns. “You performed Legilimency and Draco didn’t know? He’s studied Occlumency.”

“Well, he isn’t very good at it.”

He snorts. “How long have you known how to do that?”

“Since the other night, when I tried it on Harry.”

“And because that idiot Potter didn’t know, you thought a marked Death Eater who knows Occlumency wouldn’t?

“Well, I didn’t know Malfoy knows Occlumency, and—”

“And you didn’t know he _didn’t_.”

“And if the marked Death Eater was _you_ , then, no, obviously I wouldn’t have thought that, but Malfoy’s a teenage boy, and a bit of an emotional basket case at present.”

Severus’s mouth twitches a little, but then he schools his features. “What would you have done if he _had_ known?”

“Obliviated him.”

Severus sighs. “Do I want to know how long you’ve known how to do _that_?” He stops short. “And on whom you may have tested it?”

“Probably not. But I think you _do_ want to know what I saw in Malfoy’s head.” When he waits for her to continue, she says, “He’s supposed to kill Dumbledore.” She waits for a reaction. When there is none, she says, “You already knew that.”

“Unfortunately, I did.”

“I told him he should come talk to you.”

Severus gives a derisive snort.

“He’s angry because you married me.”

“Among other things.”

“What other things?” she asks. When Severus shakes his head, she understands. More things that would have to go on the _In case of Emergency, Obliviate Hermione_ list. They eat their breakfast in silence. After Hermione drinks the last of her tea, she stands to leave.

“You’re not going to ask?” he says.

“If you wanted to tell me, you would.”

“You’re not curious?”

She rolls her eyes. “Christ on a cracker, Severus, of course I’m curious. But I’m trying to show some consideration, let you tell me things in your own time instead of hounding you with questions.” And then she understands. He _wants_ to talk about it, but he doesn’t want to be the one to bring it up. She sits down at the table again. “So, yes, I’m curious. I’ve seen you come home after being Summoned before, but that was different.”

“I had to cast an Unforgivable.”

“Which one?”

“Imperius.”

She expels a relieved breath. Either of the others would have been worse. “And casting an Unforgivable…does that?”

“Sometimes. It depends on the circumstances, but it always provokes an extreme emotional reaction, one that Occlumency can’t suppress. And last night, I had to cast the Imperius curse several times, and hold it for an extended period.”

“And you didn’t trust yourself not to hurt me?”

“I did not want to hurt you.” His eyes shift uncomfortably. “If I had hurt you, it would have been unintentional.”

“You didn’t trust yourself not to take me to bed.”

He nods.

For a moment, she considers telling him that she almost let him, that she was—is—curious, that she wants to learn about sex just as she wants to learn about everything else. 

But she isn’t sure she’s ready. Sometimes, she thinks she is. Other times, she thinks she’s better off letting sleeping dogs lie, at least until her NEWTs and she’s learned Occlumency properly. It’s not as though she’s in love with him, for God’s sake, or even driven to distraction by sexual attraction. But since that day at Madam Malkin’s, she has felt the occasional glimmer of attraction.

What she _is_ sure about is that if it does happen, it has to be consensual. During their one encounter, they were both compelled—she by the need to survive, he by the obligation to protect her. Neither of them wanted to do what they had to, and it was awful. If she’d refused to go to her room last night, she’d have been putting Severus in a similar position because he was compelled by Dark Magic.

She has no idea whether this marriage will ever become something more than an arrangement for her protection, an unfortunate necessity they were forced into and will get themselves out of if and when that becomes possible. But if it does, it has to be because both of them want it to be, and choose it of their own volition. 


	19. Chapter 19

Severus walks quietly through the deserted corridors on his rounds. When he approaches the moving staircases, he hesitates. He was planning on one more pass along the fifth floor, but he’s tired. Let the sneaky little shits snog behind the tapestries. He really can’t be arsed to care, so he heads down instead of up, toward his own quarters in the dungeons.

When he first married Granger, he spent less time in his quarters than usual, extending his rounds so as not to be there when she was. Once he realized that she was deliberately staying out of his way, he stopped doing that, and sometimes even came back early when she might still be there. He did not entirely mind her company, or that of her unsightly familiar, though he would deny this if asked. He never found himself assaulted by questions, as he anticipated. She did ask about the potion he asked her to finish brewing for him, but when he merely shook his head, she accepted this without a word, and has not brought it up again.

When he unwards and opens the door, Granger is curled up in front of the fire with her cat and all her books and papers scattered about her.

“Oh,” she says, and starts gathering them up. “I thought you’d be on rounds still.”

“It’s all right,” he says, waving a hand at the mess. “Stay.”

She hesitates, then returns to her reading, glancing up when he sits in the armchair nearest the fire. 

Severus stares into the flames. “If you were to set yourself up as a Dark Lady, lording it over your cowed minions in perpetuity, what objects would you choose to ensure your immortality?” At Granger’s startled laugh, he says, “And don’t say you wouldn’t want to be a Dark Lady. You are. Deal with it. Now, what are your Horcruxes?”

“Well,” she says. “I suppose I’d choose things that were, first, indestructible, or nearly so. I mean, not a banana or a Kneazle kitten.”

“A banana or a Kneazle kitten? Those are the first things that come to mind as Horcruxes?”

“I was saying what I _wouldn’t_ use as a Horcrux. Don’t you listen, Severus?”

“Sorry, but you’re utter shite as a Dark Lady.”

At this she laughs out loud. “Well, of course. God. The very idea.”

“There’s not even the slightest part of you that would like to stick it to everyone who ever slighted you?”

A shadow crosses her face. “A very, very, very slight part. But I wouldn’t want to Crucio them.”

Severus nods. “As I said. Utter shite.”

“And I suppose you’d make a wonderful Dark Lord?”

“Better than you, at any rate,” he says.

“Who would you stick it to?”

The current Dark Lord would be first on his list, but telling Granger that would mean adding one more thing to the list of things he’d need to Obliviate. Pettigrew second, Bellatrix third, Dolohov fourth, and Albus fifth. He definitely won’t tell Granger that. “Why did you tell me?” he asks instead.

“About the Horcruxes, you mean?”

“Yes. You betrayed Potter’s trust to do so.”

She bites her lip. “I wouldn’t call it that, exactly.”

“What would you call it? He told you in confidence, with the understanding that you wouldn’t tell me. Then you did.”

“Maybe next time I won’t,” she huffs.

“Hermione,” he says gently. “I’m not criticizing your choice to tell me. I’m merely trying to understand it.”

“The Headmaster thinks Harry will be better able to find and destroy the Dark Lord’s Horcruxes than you would be,” she says. “That’s crazy.” 

“Perhaps Albus doesn’t trust me the way he trusts Potter.”

“Then he’s a fool.”

“So, you think you know better than Albus Dumbledore?” he asks.

“With respect to whether he can trust you?” she asks. “Yes. Not in general, of course. But I do think I know better than Harry, and I think _you_ know better than Dumbledore.”

Well, he has to agree with her there. “What if you’re wrong? What if I am doing exactly what I’ve been telling the Dark Lord I have? Gaining your trust so that you’ll betray Potter to me, and I can betray you both to the Dark Lord?”

“Then I guess I’m a bigger dunderhead than either Crabbe or Goyle,” she says.

“It was a serious question.”

“All right,” she says, looking at him for a long moment. “If that was your aim, you’d have gone about things differently than you have.”

“What would I have done?”

“Seduced me.”

“What?”

“Think about it. Here I am, this pathetic little swot with no sexual experience, and you—your head probably overflowing with all sorts of depraved, debauched Death Eater tricks I’d never see coming. Combine those diabolical seduction techniques with actually being nice to me, the way you have been, and you might have been able to do it. But you didn’t even try. And I don’t think it’s just because I’m a filthy Mudblood, either. Sorry,” she says quickly, seeing his flash of anger. “I forgot you dislike that term, though the fact that you do makes you kind of a shite Death Eater. But even if you _were_ a blood-purist arsehole like the rest of them, just pretending not to be, you’d have set aside your prejudice and done what you needed to in order to win me over.”

He stares at her, speechless.

“But you didn’t do that. Instead, you’ve been a perfect gentleman. A loyal Death Eater wouldn’t have been.”

“Perhaps I didn’t try because I knew the brightest witch of her age would have seen such an attempt coming a mile off.” He leans toward her and pitches his voice _just so_. “Perhaps I’m such a _clever_ Death Eater that I’ve convinced you by my gentlemanly behavior that I am _not_ a loyal Death Eater.”

“This really is a twisty tangle of hypotheticals, isn’t it?”

“Welcome to the spy game, Hermione.”

“It’s rather exhausting. And frustrating. No wonder you’re in a bad mood so much of the time.”

He laughs. 

“Though you’re not anymore, lately,” she muses. “Well, I suppose you still are in class, and because it was mainly in class that I used to see you…” she trails off, looking at him so long that he thinks he might have to start Occluding in order not to fidget. “It’s all an act. The way you are here, with me, isn’t you trying to gain my trust. That’s just you, and what I’ve been seeing for the past six years is the act.”

“Unless I want you to think that so I can seduce you.”

She sighs. “I suppose you’ll have to, eventually, won’t you?”

“Pardon?”

“The Dark Lord is giving you time to win my trust. Eventually, he’s going to want to see that you’ve been a good little Death Eater and got me entirely under your sway, isn’t he?”

He looks at the fire.

“Isn’t he?” she repeats. When he doesn’t answer, she says, “I want to practice Occlumency.”

“It’s late.”

“The Dark Lord won’t care if I’m tired, and I don’t care if you are. Do it.”

“Bossy thing,” he says, and then he’s in her mind without his wand or an incantation, tearing through her thoughts with more force than he’s ever used, and she scrambles to deflect him.


	20. Chapter 20

He starts with the Horcruxes, then starts viewing all her conversations with Harry. He’s relentless, dragging her from memory to memory until she’s almost dizzy with it. He doesn’t stay in any memory long, flitting from one to another, ignoring anger, frustration, hope, joy, sadness, and fear. Then he gets to shame, and stays, looking for the memory he allowed her to hide during their first lesson.

She distracts him with a conversation with Harry, when she sees the marks from the blood quill that Umbridge made him use. From here she follows Umbridge to her speech at the welcoming feast, which leads to Hermione’s memories of other welcoming feasts, including her Sorting.

She’s getting tired, but she’s also thrilled with how well she’s doing, because Severus isn’t going easy. He’s really trying, and she’s succeeding anyway. He isn’t anywhere near the memory he’s looking for. 

The welcoming feasts give way to the leaving feasts, and then trips on Hogwarts Express—back home for holidays, and back to school again afterward. Then she’s in Diagon Alley, shopping for school supplies. A memory in Madam Malkin’s leads to the day she and Severus were shopping for dress robes. She could continue fighting him, but she’s proved to herself that she can defend her mind even when she’s tired. That was her first purpose in demanding he test her now, tonight.

Her second purpose will be served when she lets him see the memory he was looking for. But first, she shows him the memory of their shopping trip, lets him watch her emerge from the fitting room and see the way he looked at her in those black satin robes, feel her recognize his desire, and be gratified by it, a little aroused, even, and think how he’s more attractive than she realized. He’s stopped searching now, and waits to see what she’ll show him.

She takes him to last night, when he came home after casting Imperius, and looked at her with undisguised lust. She lets him feel her think, _yes, this_ , and contemplate refusing to go to her room. Then she does go, not out of fear or aversion, but compassion for him because he was under a compulsion.

Her curiosity takes them to the Headmaster’s office before the Binding ceremony, before the boys came and it all fell apart. He feels her compassion for him, hears her say, “It’s hardly comparable to the Cruciatus curse,” finally knowing beyond a doubt that she was not horrified at the idea of marrying him. She wouldn’t have chosen it, and she resisted the idea at first, but her reaction was not what he expected. Certainly not the compassion for him, her awareness that the situation was as difficult and unpleasant for him as it was for her. Above all, not her open-minded curiosity, her matter-of-fact decision that if she had to do this, she may as well make the best of it, and the speculative way she looked at him once she had agreed to the marriage.

Then her shame and anger at what she took for callous rejection and disgust. He stays in the memory as she accompanies him to their rooms and waits for him to come to her, feeling all her anxiety and insecurity. When she picks up a book, tries to concentrate, only to read the same paragraph repeatedly, uncomprehendingly, as her mind races, cycling through anger, dread, humiliation, and hope that it will be all right after all—that maybe he doesn’t find her repulsive, and will be decent about things when he finally gets there, and she’ll tell him it’s her first time, and maybe they can still salvage this. Before his memory self returns to her room, he withdraws.

She starts to cry then. Wiping her eyes angrily, she stands and Summons all her books and papers into an untidy heap in her arms. 

“Hermione,” he says, trying to take the books and papers from her.

She shakes her head, and clutches them tighter. She’s on complete sensory overload, can’t even begin to process the avalanche of emotions in her head right now. Testing herself to see if she could keep him out when she was this tired, she pushed herself further than she ever has. Then, letting him see all her conflicting emotions about their marriage, she had to view those memories again along with him, and experience the emotions all over again. 

“What you’re feeling is not an uncommon response to Legilimency,” Severus says, “especially when someone is exhausted and the memories are emotionally powerful ones.” She lets go of the books and papers, and he takes them from her, sets them down on the coffee table, then puts his arms around her and lets her cry. It’s cathartic, and she gives up trying to make herself stop. 

When the tears eventually do subside, she’s aware of his hand rubbing her back, the sound of his heartbeat under her ear. When he asks, “Would you like to take Dreamless Sleep?” she can feel the vibration of his voice through his chest.

She shakes her head.

“Do you think you can sleep on your own?”

She pulls back to look at him. “Yes.” 

“If you change your mind, I’ll leave a bottle out here. We’ll talk tomorrow?”

She nods, then walks slowly to her room.

* * *

It’s long past breakfast when Hermione wakes the next morning. She checks the time and sees she’s missed her Transfiguration tutorial with Minerva. Apparently, Severus canceled her alarm, deciding she needed sleep more than studying. Normally that would annoy her, but today it doesn’t. She did need the sleep. She checks the charmed journal, where he’s written, _I told Minerva you would reschedule. Breakfast under stasis_.

She puts on her dressing gown and walks into the sitting room, where there’s enough food to feed three people, and she feels hungry enough to eat all of it.

She feels better than she’s felt since the day those owls swooped into the Great Hall, bringing new of the marriage law and proposals from two Death Eaters. Since then, it’s been one damn thing after another. She’s been under stress almost constantly. Objectively, her situation is no different today than it was yesterday, but it feels different. She kept Severus away from the memories he wanted to see even when she was tired. She’s getting better at Occlumency. She may eventually be good enough that he won’t have to Obliviate her, a fear that has been preying on her mind. And, for the first time since the marriage law, she’s been able to be completely honest with another person, hiding nothing. She didn’t realize how heavy the burden had grown until she set it down.

That’s something Severus can’t do, she realizes. Not with her, at least, not until she’s good enough to let the Dark Lord look into her mind without betraying her husband. If she’s ever that good. At this point, the very fact that he’s taught her Occlumency would get him tortured.

Can he with the Headmaster? Albus knows all of his secrets, but Severus neither likes nor trusts Albus completely, so no.

Is there anyone who knows all of the Dark Lord’s secrets? Anyone who knows what makes Tom Riddle, the man he was before he made himself a monster, the lonely boy who grew up in a Muggle orphanage, tick? Anyone with whom Riddle can close his hideous red eyes and rest, safe and secure? Anyone who would hold him as he wept after the ordeal of having someone else in his mind? Not that anyone would ever _be_ in the Dark Lord’s mind, of course.

Then she stills. But what if someone _could_ get into Riddle’s mind? What if _Severus_ could? If she asks, she imagines he’ll tell her she’s crazy, that of course no one can perform Legilimency on the Dark Lord. But maybe it’s just that no one has tried. Not that no one could, but rather that no one would, if they valued their life?

The day of their marriage, Severus told her that he didn’t expect to survive the war, that she’d one day be rid of him and free to marry someone of her own choosing. If he really believes that, if he wasn’t just saying it, then he is willing to die to destroy the Dark Lord. 

But Hermione doesn’t want him to. The day they married, when he was nothing more than her professor, whom she respected but had no personal regard for, she likewise didn’t want him to die in this war. But that was in the same way she didn’t want Albus or Minerva or Remus to die. It was different from the way she now does not want Severus to die. There’s an element of self-preservation in her concern, admittedly. If he dies, she’s back on the marriage market. She’s also learned more in her Potions and Defense tutorials than she would have in ten times as many hours in the classroom, and she could never have learned Occlumency—and Legilimency—to the extent she has if not for his careful and patient instruction, so different from how Harry described his lessons in mind magic.

Beyond appreciating his instruction, she enjoys his company. His dry, acerbic wit is rather charming now that it’s never directed at her, or at least not in a cruel way. He teases, but that’s all it is, and he doesn’t mind when she gives as good as she gets. After that first disastrous day, their marriage has been more pleasant than not, and if she’s being honest, she’s probably better off married to Severus than Fred Weasley, even without the death threat factoring in. Fred is nineteen, and would probably want to have sex more or less constantly, and she certainly wouldn’t have made the progress she has on NEWT preparation if she had a teenage husband always after her. 

Then there’s her actual husband, who appears to have no interest in having sex with her ever again. It’s a little insulting, honestly. He was attracted to her when she was in figure-hugging dress robes, and when he was compelled by Dark Magic. But the rest of the time, he appears completely indifferent. And while he’s not nineteen, he’s only in his thirties, so it’s not as though he’s reached the age where a man loses interest.

After her creditable corpse impersonation on their wedding night, she supposes she oughtn’t to be surprised. But she let him see during their Occlumency lesson why she did that. He knows it was a misunderstanding. 

_We’ll talk tomorrow_ , he said last night after she was finished crying all over him. Is it going to be one _those_ talks, where he tells her that while he’s happy to save her—or at least resigned to saving her—from Dolohov and the rest of the Death Eaters, that she mustn’t get any silly schoolgirl ideas about this being an actual marriage?

She knows it isn’t. Either one or both of them will die fighting the Dark Lord, or they’ll survive and have the Binding reversed once the Dark Lord is dead and the law repealed. She knows that. But if she’s going to die, she doesn’t want to die with that one godawful time being her only experience of sex. He didn’t even kiss her. She wonders what it would be like to kiss him.

Stop it, she tells herself. When they talk, it’ll be about the Horcruxes, and they’ll both pretend the other things never happened. Right now, she’s going to stop fixating on this nonsense and do an hour of Occlumency exercises. After that, if she still can’t keep her mind on what’s important, she’ll go beat the stuffing out of the practice dummies.


	21. Chapter 21

Because most of the potions on the list Poppy gave him are simple ones, Severus does not need to concentrate very hard on his brewing. Consequently, his thoughts keep returning to the memories Granger—no, _Hermione_ —showed him last night.

There’s a part of her that wants him. Only a part, but that’s more than he would have thought. And if he’s being honest, he’s similarly conflicted. It’s gratifying, of course, to be wanted, even if it’s only the very natural curiosity of a young woman who is exceptionally curious about everything. He’s attracted to her, but he’s also ambivalent. As a teacher, he’s been careful to keep student and not-student as completely separate, binary categories. He has slept with former students, since he’s taught practically every Hogwarts-educated witch in Britain under thirty-five. But when he did, it was years after they graduated, the first one when he was 27 and she was 24, then a few others later, all well into their twenties at least, and none more than five or six years younger than he was. 

He and Hermione are married. She’s withdrawn from classes. She’s of age. But she was his student up until the day they were married, and she’s the same age as some of his current students. The clean, binary categories are now muddled, and it leaves him feeling uncertain and anxious.

He told her they’d talk today, but he has no idea what to say. And because it’s Saturday, he has no reason to stay away from her all day. If he does, she’ll know why. Even if he avoids her all day, he still has to take her to Slughorn’s infernal party tonight, and they really should clear the air before he has to spend several hours with her wearing those black satin robes. Why on earth didn’t he let her try on the rest of them, then choose the least provocative?

He takes the headache reliever off the heat and sets it aside to cool and checks the timer on the calming draught and the pepper-up.

Hermione was right when she said the Dark Lord would expect him to seduce her eventually. The last time he was Summoned, the Dark Lord was in a good mood, and teased him a bit about his restraint. As erratic and unpredictable as the Dark Lord is, the next time he could well torture Severus for not complying with all the terms of the marriage law.

The timer chimes and he gives the calming draught the requisite number of stirs and removes it from the flame. He finishes cleaning up and then removes the pepper-up from the heat as well. Once all of the brews have cooled, he’ll have no excuse not to return to his quarters and talk to his wife.

He knows he needs to set aside his scruples and begin treating her as his wife, rather than as his platonic housemate. She is amenable, which makes things easier. Tonight, after Slughorn’s party, is probably the ideal time. After spending an evening with her in those robes, he’ll be only too ready.

* * *

Beating up on the practice dummies did make Hermione feel somewhat better, but her steps slow as she approaches her quarters after the workout. She’s not sure whether she hopes Severus is or isn’t there when she gets there. 

As it turns out, he isn’t, so she takes a shower and washes her hair in preparation for the long, tedious procedure of relaxing it into loose curls for Slughorn’s party tonight. She’s about two thirds of the way through when the wards tell her that Severus is home. 

“Hermione?” he calls from the sitting room.

“I’m doing my hair,” she says. “I’ll be out when I finish.”

She finishes the process, forcing herself to go slow and concentrate, having learned the hard way that when she tries to rush things, she always regrets it. 

Finally, with a glorious mane of party hair but no make-up and in jeans and t-shirt, she goes into the sitting room.

Severus does a double-take. “I didn’t realize it was that long.”

She smiles. “I should do it like this more often, I suppose, but it takes forever.”

“It’s worth it,” he says, the way he’s looking at her echoing his words. Then he looks away, frowns a little, and when he looks back at her, it’s with his usual impassivity. “About last night,” he begins, voice as unemotional as his expression.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” she says quickly.

“Unfortunately, I think we do.”

She looks away. _Unfortunately_?

Severus expels a frustrated sigh. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

Hermione doesn’t ask him how he did mean it. She’s pretty sure she doesn’t want to know. God, this is even more embarrassing than she was afraid it might be.

“Hermione, can we sit?” He gestures at the sofa. She walks to it and sits at one end. He sits at the other. “I appreciate your letting me see the memories you did,” he begins. “It makes it easier for me, knowing that you are not entirely…that you do not mind.”

“Do you? Mind, that is?”

“My reluctance has nothing to do with you,” he begins.

“Oh, God,” she says with a nervous laugh. “Please don’t say, ‘It’s not you. It’s me.’”

“Hermione, when a man is a teacher, entrusted with the care of very young women, he needs to compartmentalize, to make himself not see those young women in sexual terms. When you and I were forced by circumstances to marry, in my mind, you were still in that student compartment.”

“I haven’t been your student for some time now.”

“That’s true. But it was difficult for me, blurring the line that way. It made me feel as though I was doing something wrong, even if technically I wasn’t. But, of course, I did do something very wrong, in how I handled things that night.”

“We’ve already talked about that.”

“I know. But I want to assure you that things will be different the next time.”

“So, there will be a next time?”

“As you pointed out, the Dark Lord will expect it.”

“Right.” She looks down at her hands, twisting in her lap. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint the Dark Lord.”

“Hermione.”

She doesn’t look up, doesn’t trust herself to look at him.

“I also do not mind.”

He doesn’t mind. God. Was a girl ever propositioned more romantically?

“Quite the opposite, in fact,” he says.

At this, she does look at him. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was nervous. But that’s ridiculous. Snape, nervous? Because of _her_?

“I thought perhaps this evening, after Slughorn’s party?” he asks, and this time she can tell, he really is nervous. 

“Tonight,” she agrees, and then he stands, as though his work here is done. She stands, too. “Severus?”

“Yes?”

“How will it be different?” When he doesn’t answer immediately, she continues, “You said things will be different this time. Different how? Will you…will you kiss me?”

“If you wish it.”

“I do.” She steps closer. “Actually, I’d like it if you kissed me now.” She licks her lips, and watches his gaze drop from her eyes to her mouth. “So I won’t be nervous for tonight, wondering what it will be like.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he lowers his mouth to hers until their lips touch. Her eyes flutter shut, and she feels one of his hands at her lower back as the pressure of his mouth against hers increases slightly. Her lips part, and then he’s kissing her in earnest, both of his arms around her waist, and she slides hers around his neck. 

She’s kissed two boys before this, Viktor at the end of fourth year, which was nice but underwhelming, and a boy she knew from Muggle primary school the summer between fifth and sixth years, which was wet and sloppy and quite frankly might have put her off kissing forever if it had been her first experience of it. This kiss is something else entirely. If they gave NEWTs in kissing, Severus would definitely get an Outstanding. Though Outstanding seems inadequate to describe whatever it is he’s doing that has made her world tilt right off its axis.

When he releases her, she pulls him close again and captures his mouth with hers, seeking, devouring, unwilling to let this newfound pleasure go already. He reciprocates for too short a time, then gently disengages.

“Tonight,” he says.

“Tonight,” she agrees, then goes to put on her make-up with more care than she’s ever used in her life. For one mad moment, she almost considers going to Gryffindor Tower to ask Ginny—or God help her, maybe even Lavender and Parvati—for help, but because it would be too embarrassing to explain why she suddenly cares how she looks at one of Slughorn’s stupid parties when she never has before, she stays in her room and does the best she can with her own mediocre skills. 

When she finishes, she’s reasonably satisfied with her make-up, more than satisfied with her hair, and over the moon about her robes. With her hair and make-up done, the robes look even more beautiful than they did at Madam Malkin’s.

She opens her bedroom door and walks into the sitting room, where Severus is waiting in dress robes. Did she just never notice before how attractive he is, or is it the way he’s dressed? Or that she’s looking at him through the lens of that kiss? Or is it the way _he_ is looking at _her_ —almost the way he did the night he had to cast Imperius, only this time it’s not because of Dark Magic, but only because he wants her. 

“Is your lipstick charmed not to smudge?” he asks.

The way he asks makes her shiver and seriously contemplate ruining her carefully applied make-up. “If you had any idea how much I’m regretting my previous contempt for beauty charms. I don’t suppose you happen to know that one?”

“Alas, no.” He offers his arm. “The sooner we arrive at this absurd fête, the sooner we can leave.”

She takes his arm. “In that case, let’s go.”

* * *

“Mm,” Severus says, not sure exactly what he’s acknowledging, as the witch from the Serbian Ministry continues waxing enthusiastic about…something. Horace insisted that the witch— Severus doesn’t recall her name—absolutely must tell Severus about the fascinating project the Department of—he doesn’t remember that, either—is working on.

His eyes cut from the Serbian witch’s face to the figure of his wife, who is talking with Lovegood and a Belgian wizard across the room. Severus spent an excruciating five minutes listening to the Belgian twit drone on about ley lines before making his escape, only to stumble into still more tedious conversations.

“Don’t you agree?” the Serbian witch asks.

“Absolutely.” Severus has no idea what he’s just agreed to, but the woman seems satisfied with his response, so he goes back to thinking about Hermione, who looks so beautiful in those robes and that hair and make-up that all he can think about is getting her back to their rooms once they’ve spent enough time here to be polite. He forces himself to look at the Serbian Ministry witch and not at Hermione, lest he start speculating about what’s under that black satin and have to excuse himself to the loo to do something about the result of that speculation. Thank God he had a wank in the shower to take the edge off before getting ready. He’d be climbing the walls now if he hadn’t.

He checks the time. Fifteen minutes and then they can excuse themselves without being rude. Or maybe ten. Yes, definitely ten. Ten minutes until he can take her back to their rooms and—

Fucking hell. Could that goddamned snake-faced bastard have _any_ worse timing?

“Excuse me,” he interrupts the witch, and strides rapidly across the room. When he reaches Hermione, her smile fades when she sees his grim expression. “Please excuse us,” he says to Lovegood and the Belgian. Wordlessly, Hermione accompanies him to the door. “I’ve been Summoned,” he says when they’re alone in the corridor. “Have Potter see you back to our quarters.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“Every moment I delay risks increasing his anger.”

She nods, and he strides rapidly down the corridor, breaking into a run when he turns the corner. In their quarters, he quickly changes into his Death Eater robes and grabs the silver mask. He takes the hidden exit at the end of the dungeon corridor and walks rapidly to the gates. Once he’s outside, he touches his wand to the Dark Mark and feels the sickening sensation of being sucked away through space.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, you wonderful ladies, to make up for the Great Voldemort Cock Block chapter, I am posting a BONUS CHAPTER tonight, and will post another in the morning as usual. Part of the reason I am doing so is because I don't want you to sit and stew all day after reading the grim and horrible Chapter 22. I'd rather leave you with Chapter 23 to think about all day tomorrow. 
> 
> Trigger warning for rape mentioned in this chapter. It's not described, but it is mentioned.

From the Apparition chamber at Malfoy Manor, Severus walks quickly to the drawing room. Inside, a sea of silver masks turn toward him. He hasn’t seen a meeting this large in a long time.

“You’re late, Severussss.” When the Dark Lord hisses that way, lengthening the final sibilant in his name, Severus knows he’s in trouble. 

“I apologize, my lord. I was attending—”

“I am not interested in your social calendar,” the Dark Lord cuts in. Then, without warning, he is in Severus’s mind, tearing through his thoughts with a brutality Severus has only experienced a few times. Severus knows he’s going to have a pounding headache for most of the next day. These incursions have become cursory in recent months, but this one is not. This time, the madman is ransacking his brain with the destructive carelessness of a petty drug addict who’s broken into a house looking for any and every sort of valuable he might steal. As soon as Severus realizes that he is looking for memories of Hermione, he pushes those to the forefront, carefully concealing any discussion of Horcruxes or Occlumency lessons.

When the Dark Lord withdraws from his mind, Severus crumples to the ground. He takes a ragged breath, then another, and pulls himself up to his knees.

“When I gave the Mudblood to you rather than Antonin or Draco, was it so that you could help her attain the highest NEWT scores in the history of Hogwarts?”

“No, my lord.”

“Do you realize how that will look, Severus?”

“I—”

“Do you wish to make me a public laughingstock, Severus?”

“Of course not, my lord.”

“Why did I allow you to keep the Mudblood after you took it upon yourself to marry her without my permission, Severus?” Before Severus can answer, the Dark Lord turns to Dolohov. “Antonin, why did I deny you the prize you sought, in favor of Severus?”

“So that he could gain her trust and thereby learn important intelligence of Potter, my lord,” Dolohov says.

“And have you done that, Severus? Have you brought me important intelligence of Potter?”

“I have gained her trust, my lord.”

“Crucio,” Voldemort says almost casually, his wand held loosely in his long, pale hand as Severus writhes on the ground. “That is not what I asked. Have you brought me important intelligence of Potter?”

“Not yet, my lord,” Severus gasps.

“Not _yet_? Did I ask for qualifiers? It was a yes or no question. Crucio,” he adds, before Severus can reply. 

This bout is longer, or at least it feels that way to Severus, and when the madman finally lifts the curse, Severus vomits on the Malfoys’ lovely carpet. At least he didn’t piss himself. Yet.

“Severus, when you joined us so shockingly late this evening, our dear friend Antonin had just brought us three new recruits.” The Dark Lord gestures toward three figures, the only ones in the room unmasked. Two of them are former students. Levin, who graduated last year, asked if he could apprentice with Severus. Severus’s pain-fogged mind can’t come up with the other boy’s name. “When is the last time _you_ brought me three new recruits at once, Severus?”

“Never, my lord,” he croaks.

“When is the last time you brought me _one_ new recruit, Severus?”

As though he could forgive himself if he were to inflict this nightmare on anyone else. “Never, my lord.” He knows better than to point out that his service has been in other areas. In his more benevolent moods, the Dark Lord can be swayed by logic, but this is not one of his more benevolent moods.

“Remain on your knees while our new recruits take the Mark, Severus.”

“Yes, my lord.” He is the only one in the room on his knees, with the exception of the new recruits, each of whom kneels in turn to receive the Mark, then collapses in agony to recover from the experience afterward.

“Severus,” the Dark Lord says when the ceremony is finished, “It’s time your brothers and I met your Mudblood. Go and bring her to us.”

Severus is afraid he might be sick again. He tries to rise, but his knees buckle and he falls to the floor again. He’s trying again when the Dark Lord says, “Lucius, heal him sufficiently to walk and Apparate, but no more than that.”

“Yes, my lord,” Lucius Malfoy says from behind his silver mask, and walks to Severus. Lucius goes down on one knee beside Severus and murmurs a healing spell as he moves his wand over his fallen friend. There is concern in Lucius’s gray eyes, and he takes a terrible risk by healing Severus not completely, but more than what is minimally necessary for him to walk and Apparate. He cleans up the sick, both on the expensive carpet and on Severus’s robes, and offers his arm for Severus to lean on as he rises. Severus grasps it, giving every appearance of being in greater pain than he is, and walks slowly out of the room and to the Apparition chamber. 

* * *

“Severus!” Hermione cries when he enters their quarters. He knows he must look a fright, and she’s concerned.

“Change your clothes,” he says. “Quickly. Something modest.” She’s still in the black satin robes and there is no way in hell he’s giving Dolohov a look at her like this.

“Severus—”

“ _Now_ , Hermione. Please. The Dark Lord has ordered me to bring you to him.”

She nods and goes into her bedroom. He goes to his Potions stores and looks longingly at the pain reliever and nerve regenerator, but he isn’t sure how they might interfere with the Groundhog Day potion. He can’t risk it. He opens the vial and swallows the light blue potion. When he returns to the sitting room, Hermione is in jeans and a jumper.

“Not that,” he says, then moderates his tone when he sees the tears well in her wide, terrified eyes. It isn’t her fault. She doesn’t know. He should have been more specific. “Nothing Muggle. Do you have any plain robes?”

“I—”

“Come,” he says, walking past her into her bedroom. He rifles through her wardrobe and forces himself not to growl in frustration. He pulls a robe out and tosses it on the bed. “This.” When she picks it up, he returns to the sitting room but leaves her bedroom door open so she can hear him. “He knows you’ve attempted to teach yourself Occlumency,” he says. “He thinks your attempts are pitiful and ineffective. Show him your library when he enters your mind, then let him believe he’s seeing what he wants to, not memories you are pushing forward. Connect them by emotion, as you’ve practiced.”

“You’re not going to Obliviate me?” she asks, emerging from her room in dark, loose-fitting robes. “Am I good enough?”

“We’ll find out.”

She stares at him, openmouthed, not knowing that because of the potion he took, it’s no risk at all, but rather the perfect way to test her abilities. Whether she succeeds or fails, he’s the only one who will know.

“We need to hurry.” He walks to the door. “The longer we take, the angrier he’ll be when we get there.” She manages to keep up as he strides out of their quarters, down the corridor, and out the hidden exit. “We’re going to fly. He said we were to come quickly.”

She looks around for a nonexistent broom, then gasps as he Disillusions them both, puts his arms around her, and lifts them both into the air. “What the hell?” she cries, clinging to him like Devil’s Snare.

“Don’t be afraid. I’ve got you.”

“I _hate_ flying.”

“We’re almost there.”

When they land outside the gates, he removes the Disillusionment spell. Then, taking her arm, he presses his wand to the Mark.

She stumbles against him when they arrive in the Apparition chamber at the Manor. Bellatrix is there when they arrive, her eyes glittering with amusement as Hermione stumbles against him. 

“Poor little Mudblood doesn’t like to Apparate?” she taunts. “Would you rather travel in a motor car like the Muggle you should be?”

Ignoring Bellatrix, Severus starts to walk past her, pulling Hermione with him, but Bellatrix grasps his arm. 

“Not so fast, Snape. Our lord asked me to prepare the Mudblood for her audience, make sure she’s dressed appropriately.”

“As you can see, that will not be necessary.”

“Oh, but it is. These robes are not at all appropriate for the whore that she is. I’ll put her in something of mine. Unfortunately, I’ll have to burn it after it touches her, but I’m sure I can find something I’m not especially fond of.” Bellatrix grasps Hermione’s upper arm. “Come, poppet. Let’s make you pretty for the Dark Lord,” then looks at her hand where it’s touching Hermione’s robes and grimaces, as though she’s touching something loathsome. “Or as pretty as we can, considering what we’ve got to work with.”

Severus watches Bellatrix pull Hermione roughly with her as she stalks out, then heads toward the drawing room and enters as unobtrusively as he can. Lucius is standing near the door, and Severus moves to stand next to him. They exchange the briefest of glances before turning their attention to the Dark Lord, who is watching one of the new initiates raping a screaming Muggle woman. As much as Severus hates the thought of Hermione being subjected to Bellatrix, perhaps it’s better than having her here to see this.

Thankfully, when Hermione enters, pulled roughly along by Bellatrix, the woman has been taken off to be Obliviated and released—or perhaps killed, depending on Yaxley’s mood, since the Dark Lord didn’t give orders beyond, “Clean up this mess, Corban.”

Severus cringes inwardly at the sight of his wife, dressed like the whore Bellatrix called her in a tight, low-cut corset over the sheerest of robes. The natural-looking make-up she was wearing before has been replaced by the smoky eyes and red lips Bellatrix prefers. He can see in her eyes how much she hates being put on display this way, but there’s nothing he can do about it. She looks around desperately, searching for him amid the sea of silver masks, and his powerlessness fills him with a blind rage. He wants to kill them all—Bellatrix, Dolohov, this whole crowd of sycophantic murderers with the exception of Lucius and Draco, but especially the fucking Dark Lord himself, that hypocrite Halfblood who is terrorizing all of them just to assuage his own blood-purist insecurities.

“On your knees before your lord,” Bellatrix orders, shoving Hermione roughly to the ground in front of the Dark Lord.

“Welcome, Mudblood,” he says. “Or should I say, Madam Snape?”

Bellatrix, Dolohov and a few others laugh at that. When Hermione doesn’t answer, Bellatrix kicks her. “Say, ‘Thank you, my lord,’ you ignorant creature.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Hermione whispers.

Severus can tell by Hermione’s involuntary jerk when the Dark Lord enters her mind. He can’t see Hermione’s face, but watches the Dark Lord for clues as to what he might be seeing. The monster remains in Hermione’s mind for so long that Severus is sure he must have broken through not only the decoy shields, but her actual ones as well. When he finally withdraws, Hermione collapses onto the carpet, and the Dark Lord turns to Severus.

“As you informed me, Severus, her attempts to teach herself Occlumency are pitiful,” the Dark Lord says. “The idea that a Mudblood schoolgirl could shield her mind from _me_ —or even from you. It’s ludicrous.”

“Yes, my lord,” Severus replies. The fact that the Dark Lord is contemptuous rather than furious suggests that he saw nothing about Horcruxes or Occlumency lessons. She did it. She actually fucking _did it_. A Muggleborn girl outsmarted the fucking Dark Lord. It’s all he can do not to laugh in delighted pride. They can dress her up in degrading clothes, insult her and mock her, but his Hermione has got the best of all of them.

“She knows nothing about Potter’s plans,” the Dark Lord continues. “So, what use is she to me? Why should you waste your time and sully yourself with her?”

“Not yet, my lord, but she may in future.”

“I grow weary of waiting, Severus. With you, it is always _not yet_. As opposed to Antonin, who brought me three new recruits tonight.” He turns to Dolohov. “Antonin, my trusted servant, I would like to grant you a reward. Ask, and it shall be yours.”

Dolohov hesitates, then looks first at Hermione. “I fear that I may anger you, my lord, by asking for the reward I most desire.”

The Dark Lord looks at Dolohov, then at Severus, then back at Dolohov, his noseless face transforming into a hideous caricature of a smile. “Severus’s Mudblood?”

“Yes, my lord,” Dolohov says. “But only if it pleases you, my lord.”

Severus feels the bile rising in his throat again, but swallows it down. 

The Dark Lord is looking at him, stroking his wand thoughtfully. “What do you have to say, Severus?”

He knows what the madman wants to hear: _As you wish, my lord._ Can he make himself say it? If he objects, argues, pleads, begs, it will not sway the monster. It will only get him another round of the Cruciatus. She won’t remember it, he tells himself. He’s taken the potion, and once this cursed day ends, they’ll all live it over again, as if none of this ever happened. He’s the only one who will know, and he’ll use that knowledge to make sure it doesn’t happen this way again. 

“As you wish, my lord,” he forces himself to say.

Hermione turns toward the sound of his voice, drawing in a sharp breath. The look of shock and fear and above all betrayal in her eyes is almost more than he can bear. But he does bear it, because he has no choice. 

Or does he? He has his wand. He can kill Doholov. But then the Dark Lord would kill him. What if the death of the person who takes the potion negates the spell? He doesn’t think it will, but if there’s even a slim chance, that means Hermione would be given to some other Death Eater permanently after his death, not just for a few hours.

“Very good, Severus,” the Dark Lord says. “You have pleased me, for the first time this evening. As a reward, I will not take the Mudblood from you entirely, will give you one more opportunity to use her as you initially proposed. I will let Antonin have her only for the evening. I will Obliviate her afterward, so that all of your hard work will not be undone.” He turns to Dolohov. “Does that please you, Antonin?”

“Very much, my lord. Thank you.”

Severus’s hand twitches on his wand. She won’t remember, he tells himself, repeating it like a mantra. She won’t remember. She’ll never know.

But he will.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be sure you didn't miss the extra chapter posted last night, if you're only checking in the mornings. This one is to make up for the horror of Chapter 22. Now, it's yesterday all over again, only without the six more weeks of winter. "Babe. I got you, babe..."

It’s long past breakfast when Hermione wakes on Saturday morning. She checks the time and sees she’s missed her Transfiguration tutorial with Minerva. Apparently, Severus canceled her alarm, deciding she needed sleep more than studying. Normally that would annoy her, but today it doesn’t. She did need the sleep. She checks the charmed journal, where he’s written, _I told Minerva you would reschedule. Breakfast under stasis_.

She puts on her dressing gown and walks into the sitting room, where Severus is having coffee and reading. “Oh,” she says, making sure her gown is fastened properly. “When I saw your message, I assumed you’d be gone.”

“We were going to talk this morning.”

“Right.” She sits at the table, avoiding his eyes, and pours herself a cup of tea.

“You’re uncomfortable.”

She spreads marmalade on a slice of toast. “I’m embarrassed.”

“There’s no need to be.”

Now she does look up. He’s being very mature about all this. Of course. Because he _is_ mature. Unlike her, who stupidly showed her husband-of-convenience a bunch of memories telling him about the silly schoolgirl crush she’s in the process of developing.

“I’m glad you showed me those memories,” he says.

“You are? Why?”

“Because you were right. The Dark Lord _will_ expect me to do more than tutor you for your NEWTs. But beyond that,” he continues, when she starts to interrupt, “I would very much _like_ to do more.”

Her breathing quickens as she looks at him. Is he saying what she thinks he is? That he wants her, that way? He stands and walks around to her side of the table and takes her hand. She looks up at him, still uncertain, but he pulls gently on her hand, urging her to rise. When she does, he lowers his head until his lips just barely graze hers, then pulls back and looks at her.

“Was that unwelcome?” he asks.

She shakes her head no. 

“May I kiss you again?”

She swallows hard and nods. This time, he puts one arm around her waist before capturing her lips with his. This kiss is more than a graze. His mouth is still closed, but the pressure is firmer, and the hand that isn’t at her waist slides into her hair, fingers on her neck, thumb caressing her cheek. Only when she sighs and her lips part does she feel his mouth open, and then they’re snogging each other senseless, and both his arms are around her waist now, pulling her against him. Not that she needs to be pulled, with her hands in his hair and her body practically melting into his.

* * *

Why did it take him so long to do this? he thinks as he kisses her again, one hand pulling the tie on her dressing gown so he can slide his arms around her under it, his hands caressing the silken skin left uncovered by her sleep shorts and vest. She doesn’t object. On the contrary, she moans into his mouth and presses herself against him. She can obviously feel his hardness against her, and does not seem in the least put off by it.

Why did he wait? Cowardice, because he was unsure of her response? Since she asked him to kiss her yesterday—or, rather, the previous today, which she doesn’t remember—he knew how she would respond today—this today, his second chance to get things right, to avoid the horror that he refuses to think of. Today, he will be on time. The Dark Lord will see that he has bedded his wife. And he will come up with some plausible but entirely manufactured piece of “intelligence” to give the madman about Potter. Perhaps, if he plays his part well enough, the Dark Lord will not order him to bring Hermione.

“Come to bed?” he asks now, lips moving to her jaw, then her neck. There is only today. Last night never happened. She doesn’t remember. She need never know.

“Yes.”

He takes her hand and leads her into his bedroom, where he removes her dressing gown and tosses it onto the foot of his bed, drinking in the sight of her, nipples hard under the thin fabric, eyes dark, lips swollen from his kisses. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, and he means it. He knows what she’ll look like tonight, in those black satin robes, her hair loose and tumbling so much farther down her back than it does when in its natural curls, but she’s possibly even lovelier now, looking at him the way she is, her desire for him written so clearly on her face.

She wouldn’t desire him if she knew what he allowed her to be subjected to on the previous today, the one she doesn’t remember. He pushes the thought away, focusing on the present moment, her, here with him now, safe, unharmed, wanting him.

He slides one hand under her thin vest, then stops. “Yes?”

At her whispered “Yes,” he slides his hard higher, cupping her breast. Her eyes flutter closed and she arches into his hand.

“May I?” he asks, lifting the hem of the garment with his other hand.

“You’re still dressed.”

He pulls his hand back and removes his cufflinks. “Help me rectify that?”

She nods and unties his cravat, then begins unbuttoning his shirt. He doesn’t help, lets her remove the garment and lay it on top of her dressing gown. He watches as her eyes travel over his chest, followed by her hands. She does not appear discouraged.

“Now?” he asks, fingering the hem of her vest. When she nods, he lifts it slowly, and she raises her arms so he can pull it off over her head. Now it’s her turn to watch him looking and touching, first with hands, and then, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling her to stand between his legs, with his mouth. When her breath is coming fast and she has his hair in a death grip, he releases her breast from his mouth. At her moue of disappointment, he gestures toward his boots. “You don’t want me to wear these to bed, do you?”

She surprises him by dropping to her knees and removing them for him, along with his socks, then stands and unbuckles his belt. He stands, too, and steps out of his trousers. Clad only in obviously tented pants, he slips a finger under the waistband of her sleep shorts. “Yes?”

“You’re very cautious, aren’t you?” she asks.

“I thought it the best approach, under the circumstances.”

She licks her lips and steps closer. “You don’t need to be _too_ cautious. I won’t break.”

He swallows, hard. _Fucking hell_. 

* * *

Severus allows himself to feel a little smug as he watches Hermione come down from her second orgasm. The bar was set pretty low after their first disastrous experience, but he was determined to make up for it completely, and then some.

“Oh, my God,” Hermione says once she’s capable of speech. “If you’d done that on our wedding night, I wouldn’t be half so well prepared for my NEWTs.”

Severus laughs. “Good thing I didn’t, then.”

“Just as long as you do it again, and often.” She slides her leg over his and trails her hand across his chest.

“That will not be a problem,” he assures her, and turns from his back to his side, facing her. As he runs his hand over the smooth skin of her hip, he feels himself hardening again. “Was there a particular _it_ that you meant, or the whole procedure in general?”

“The whole thing, though I did have a couple of favorite parts.”

“And what were those?” 

“I should think it would have been obvious,” she says a little primly.

He smiles. “Well, yes.” Though she’s relatively uninhibited in what she _does_ , given her inexperience, she’s apparently still reticent about what she’s willing to _say_.

She bites her lip. “There is something you _didn’t_ do just now though, that I wonder if you might?”

“What might that be?” he asks, now completely ready for whatever it might be.

“Something you did…the other time.”

He can’t imagine that there’s anything she’d want to repeat from _that_ clusterfuck. But she disengages from their side by side embrace and moves to her hands and knees. “It felt good this way,” she says. “I had to pretend that it didn’t, because I was so angry at you and didn’t want you to know, but it did.”

“I’m glad you told me,” he says, rising to kneel behind her. “This will only get better if you tell me what you like, and if there is anything I’m not doing that you would like me to do.”

“All right,” she says, then groans as he enters her. “God. Yes, like that,” she says as he fills her completely. “Oh, fuck.”

He chuckles. “Such a dirty mouth, Granger.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I like it. I want to you to say exactly what you want during sex, without concern for what I’ll think.”

“I will if you will,” she pants, then practically keens as he thrusts harder than he has to this point. “I love your voice.”

“Good to know,” he says, pitching it lower. “I love the sounds you make when you’re about to come. This time, I want to hear you scream my name when you finish.”

“Yes. God. I’m so close,” she whimpers. “Severus, please.”

“Please what, Hermione?” He reaches around to touch her the way he wanted to last time.

Her response is garbled, incoherent. 

“Does that feel good?”

“Yes, yes, but _more_.”

“More?”

“Harder.”

Surprised and gratified in equal measure, he stops holding back and obliges.

“Yes!” she gasps.

“Like this?”

Again, her answer is just sounds, not words, but those sounds tell him she’s close, and he keeps talking to her until she does as he asked, and screams his name. As he feels her tighten around him, he lets himself go as well, replacing the unpleasant memory of taking her like this with an infinitely more satisfying one.


	24. Chapter 24

Severus’s bathtub is a little slice of heaven. Someday, she may forgive him for having her make do with that tiny shower all this time when she could have been bathing in here.

The heat soothes the not unpleasant aches in unfamiliar places. It feels almost surreal, lying here truly relaxed for the first time since the owls swooped into the Great Hall bearing news of the marriage law. Since then, she hasn’t passed a day without stress, and the last few hours were the first ones where she could honestly say she wasn’t worried either about either the Dark Lord or her NEWTs.

Her most pressing fear has been that she will fail to master Occlumency, and Severus will have to Obliviate her when he has to bring her before the Dark Lord. She accepts that it may be necessary to save both of their lives, and to prevent him learning that Harry and Dumbledore know about the Horcruxes, but the idea of losing all that knowledge makes her feel positively ill. And what if some of her NEWT preparation is lost during the Obliviate? Severus said he can make it very targeted, but what if he’s ordered to bring her without much notice, and has to work quickly?

But she hasn’t thought about any of that since the first time Severus kissed her this morning. God. No wonder her fellow students are so sex-obsessed. She’s never understood it, but now she does. The idea of being able to focus on Runes translations when she could be doing _that_ …well, she really doesn’t see how she’s going to do it. At least she’ll be able to study while Severus is teaching. Though if her current state of mind is any indication, she may end up wasting precious study time daydreaming about the sex they’ve already had.

“Lunch is here,” she hears Severus call from the sitting room.

“I’ll be there in a minute.” She sinks deeper into the water for a moment, then stands and dries herself. She puts on her dressing gown—why bother dressing, when she’s hoping that they’ll be right back in bed after lunch—and walks into the sitting room. Severus is dressed, though only in trousers and a shirt open at the neck.

As soon as she sits down at the table, Hermione realizes she’s starving. She barely ate anything before things got started this morning. She takes a bite of the beef and barley soup, which tastes as good as it smells, then picks up the roast beef sandwich.

“The Dark Lord is going to Summon me this evening, and it is possible that he may ask me to bring you to him as well.”

Hermione finishes chewing and swallows. “How do you know? I thought you said you never know when he’s going to Summon you?”

“Normally I don’t, but I learned about tonight’s meeting through an unusual source.”

“And that source said he might tell you to bring me?”

“Yes.”

She draws and releases a shaky breath. “Are you going to Obliviate me?”

“No.”

“You think I’m ready, then?”

“I know you are.”

“How do you know? How can you be sure?”

“Will you trust me?”

She hesitates, then nods.

“I’ve taken the precaution of telling him that you’ve attempted to teach yourself Occlumency. He believes your success has been minimal, and that you will not be able to hide anything from him. Because of this, if he does detect any evidence of Occlumency while in your mind, he will dismiss it.”

She nods again.

“When he first enters your mind, show him a weak version of your library shield. He will break through easily, after which you will show him the memories we agree on, linked by emotion as you’ve practiced. He will believe he is following your emotions on his own to find what he is looking for.”

“What will I show him?”

“First, your fears of being brought to him, followed by a conversation you and I are going to have about it later today for his benefit. I’ll tell you beforehand what to say, then we’ll have the conversation that you’ll show him.”

“Okay.”

“At the end of that conversation, I’ll kiss you, which will take you to our kiss earlier this morning, followed by…the rest of it.”

“You want me to show him _that_? Absolutely not!”

“You have to, though it must appear that you’re doing your best _not_ to show him, that you’re embarrassed, don’t want him to see.”

“I don’t!”

“I know. I don’t like it any better than you do, but he will be looking for it, and it will distract him.”

“Distract him?”

“Yes. His current incarnation has apparently left him…incapacitated in certain ways, and he compensates through voyeurism.”

Hermione wrinkles her nose. “Ew.”

“Indeed.”

“God. If you’d told me we were essentially filming a porno for the Dark Lord,” she huffs.

He laughs.

“It isn’t funny, Severus. It’s awful.”

“It is.”

She sighs. “I suppose you didn’t tell me because it would have ruined it for me.”

“Yes.”

“How could _you_ …knowing he was going to…oh, my God, it’s so disgusting.” She shudders.

“Because I have no choice. My freedom ended the day I took the Mark.”

“Oh, Severus.”

“It can’t be helped.”

“Until we find the disgusting pervert’s Horcruxes and destroy them.”

“Until then,” he agrees.

“But how are we going to find them? Albus and Harry are stumbling around in the dark. They have no idea what they are, or even how many. They could be anything.”

“A banana or a Kneazle kitten,” Severus smirks.

“Shut up.” She tries not to smile. “You’re right, though. They could be almost anything. It’s a pity you can’t perform Legilimency on him, without his knowing, the way the Headmaster does to people, and I did with Draco.” She stills. “Or can you?”

“I’ve never dared try.” He looks off into the middle distance, as though he’s contemplating this for the first time.

“Can you do it to other people, the way the Headmaster does?”

“Of course,” he practically scoffs.

She narrows her eyes. “Have you ever done it to me?”

“No.”

“Do you swear?”

“I swear.”

“Have you thought about it?”

“Not since your second year when I suspected you raided my stores.”

“But you didn’t, even then?”

“I didn’t.”

“Have you done it to the Headmaster?”

“No, though I’ve very much wanted to.”

“You assumed he’d be able to tell.”

“Yes.” He gets that lost in thought look again, then stands and starts buttoning his shirt to the collar and walking toward his bedroom.

“Where are you going?” she calls.

He emerges with his frock coat on and his cravat in his hand. “I need to see Albus.”

“I thought we were going back to bed?”

He ties his cravat. “It would appear that I have been married to a nymphomaniac all this time without realizing it.”

“I’m going to apologize to Harry and Ron for sticking up for you all these years. You _are_ awful.”

He leans down to kiss her quickly on the lips. “I never claimed otherwise.” 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some questions from readers in reviews on FF dot net about how exactly the potion works. In my story world, it works just the way the daily repeat works in the film _Groundhog Day_. In the film, when Bill Murray goes to sleep at the end of the day, he wakes up again at the beginning of the same day, February 2, by some never-explained story-magic. He remembers everything that happened on the first (and second, and fifty-second, and however many repeats there were) February 2, but no one else does. For Andi McDowell and Chris Elliott and the rest of them, yesterday was February 1, and everything on February 2 is happening for the first time, with no sense of deja-vu. In my story, taking the potion creates exactly that enchantment, so Severus remembers the previous day (Saturday) but no one else does. Hermione doesn't; Voldemort doesn't; no one does. For them, today (Saturday) follows Friday. For Severus, today (Saturday) follows the previous day (also Saturday). If Hermione and Severus both take the potion, both of them will remember the previous day. The only way the day stays in one's memory is if they take the potion; for everyone else, it's as though the day didn't happen. 

“He’s growing impatient. I need to tell him _something_ ,” Severus says.

“What makes you think that?” Albus asks. “You haven’t been Summoned in several weeks.”

“Lucius saw him yesterday.”

“You’ve seen Lucius Malfoy?”

“We spoke by Floo.” Severus looks at Albus’s arm, with the hand hidden beneath the desk. “Let me see.”

“It’s no worse.”

“Show me.”

Albus sighs and extends his arm on the desk.

“Tell me about the ring again,” Severus says, lifting his eyes briefly from Albus’s arm to his eyes, and mentally casting Legilimens. He remains in the Headmaster’s mind only a moment, but it’s long enough to see him thinking about the ring, a Horcrux, and a golden locket, also a Horcrux. He ends the spell and looks back down at Albus’s arm.

“There’s nothing more to tell, my boy.”

When Severus glances up, he sees no evidence that Albus was aware of his brief incursion. If he had been, Severus could have taken the potion again and repeated this day a third time. “I’ve been thinking about my attempt to teach Potter Occlumency last year,” he says.

“Such a pity that you were unsuccessful.”

“I agree,” Severus says, “which is why I am willing to try again.”

Albus widens his blue eyes. “What changed your mind? You were so adamant.”

“It is for the greater good. If the Dark Lord has access to Potter’s mind, it jeopardizes everything,” he says, casting the spell again. This time, in the brief moment before he withdraws, he sees in the Headmaster’s mind the reason for Potter’s connection with the Dark Lord. He ends the spell at once and carefully schools his features. His mind racing, he reaches for his tea cup and takes a sip. “If you have nothing for me, Albus, I will have to come up with something on my own.”

“Perhaps Hermione could be of assistance?” Albus suggests.

“Perhaps.”

“How are the two of you getting along?”

Though desperate to get out of there and process his horrifying discovery, Severus forces himself to continue the tedious small talk. “Tolerably well. She is little enough trouble when not accompanied by Potter and Weasley.”

The old goat starts twinkling away at this. “Splendid!”

“If you will excuse me?” He stands and walks toward the door.

“Of course, my boy. I trust I shall see you and Hermione at Horace’s party this evening?”

Severus nods before walking out the door and down the stairs. Potter is a goddamn fucking _Horcrux_. Severus has spent the better part of _six years_ protecting the boy, when all along that old bastard sat there smiling and twinkling away, just as though his pet student wasn’t being raised for slaughter. It’s monstrous.

Potter is an _unintentional_ Horcrux. The cursed ring, now destroyed, was one that the Dark Lord made purposely, along with the gold locket. The diary that possessed the Weasley girl four years ago, also destroyed. That’s three intentional Horcruxes. Is that all? Riddle had to be mad to create even that many, but if he would split his soul three times—four, including the time he hadn’t meant to—who’s to say how many times he would do it? How many times can the human soul be split before it descends into madness?

The Dark Lord _is_ mad. And barely human, physically. How many Horcruxes would it take to bring a person to that point? He doesn’t bother going to the restricted section of the library. If there was anything there, Albus has it now. He’s read everything relevant in his own books. He needs at least a full day, uninterrupted, in the library at Malfoy Manor, but with the Dark Lord staying there, he doesn’t dare go. 

Though he could go on a day he took the potion, a day where nothing he did would have lasting consequences. He wishes he’d been in a better state of mind to take advantage of it yesterday. He would have tried Legilimency on Bellatrix, and perhaps a few of the others.

He could take it again today, do everything today that he should have done yesterday. But if he does, Hermione won’t remember anything that happened today. Unless she takes the potion, too. He can’t ask her to do that, to risk having to face the Dark Lord not once but twice. Besides, he has only so much time sand, so he needs to conserve it. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. But there are seven more doses of the potion from the last batch he brewed—three days for both of them, or seven days for him. He can’t brew more, because when today comes again, the new potion will never have been brewed.

He stops mid-stride. If yesterday never happened, was the potion consumed? The initial batch produced eight vials. He took one yesterday. He hasn’t looked today, only assumed there would be seven left. He resumes walking, faster now, and when he gets to their quarters, rushes to the cabinet where he keeps the potion.

Seven vials. Of course there are only seven. In order for the spell to work, the potion needs to be truly consumed, even if nothing else from the day is real.

Hermione approaches as he’s standing in front of the open cabinet. “What is that? The light blue one. It’s the one I finished for you that day you were Summoned, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“So, what is it?”

He hesitates, then asks, “Did you ever see the film Groundhog Day?”

“Of course,” she laughs, “though I’m rather surprised you did.”

“Why? I’m a Halfblood. I’ve spent as much time in the Muggle world as you have.”

“So, what does an American comedy film have to do with—” She stares at him, open-mouthed. “That’s how you knew you’re going to be summoned tonight.”

“That’s how,” he confirms. “The potion lets you repeat the day you took it, so that nothing that happens that day—apart from consuming the potion—actually happened, as far as anyone but the person who takes it knows, and the next day is the same day over again.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, my God. Did we have sex yesterday and now I don’t _remember_?”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t lie to me about that, would you?”

“I would not.”

She chews at her lower lip, brows furrowed, then says, “I thought what happened today was because of the memories I showed you last night—or, rather, the night before last, for you—but it was because of something that happened when you were Summoned, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“He was angry? Because we hadn’t?”

“Yes.”

“What did he do to you?”

“Cruciatus.”

She winces. “I’m so sorry.”

He shrugs. 

“You said he might tell you to bring me there. Did he do that yesterday?” Before Severus can answer, she says, “Oh, my God! That’s how you knew I could do it. Because I already did.”

“Yes.”

“I kept the Dark Lord out of my mind, and you weren’t going to tell me?”

“I was going to. Tomorrow.”

“So tomorrow _will_ be tomorrow, because you don’t need to take the potion again today?”

He hesitates. “Yes.”

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? Why? You just said things would happen differently.”

“Because of something you said earlier, about how it’s a pity I can’t perform Legilimency on the Dark Lord.”

“And you think that using this potion, you can? Because if he catches you and kills you, you still wake up to ‘I Got You, Babe’ playing on the clock radio?”

“I do know that physical harm isn’t permanent, since I woke up without any ill effects from the Cruciatus today, but I’m not sure what happens if the person who takes the potion dies. Is it like in the film where Bill Murray drives off a cliff and is no worse for wear, or does the death of the person who ingested the potion cancel the spell? I honestly have no idea.”

“So, you can take more risks than usual, but can’t actually risk death.”

“Exactly.”

“If you take the potion today, I want to take it, too.”

“Agreed.”

She smiles. “So, what’s the plan, Phil?”


	26. Chapter 26

“Come _on_ , Harry. Focus,” Hermione says.

“It’s no use. I’m never going to be able to do it,” Harry complains. “You’re as bad as Snape.”

“Yes, you are, and no, I’m not. I’ve been the soul of patience.” This is what Severus is going to show the Dark Lord, the memory of her telling him about trying—and failing—to teach Harry Occlumency.

“You’ve been a slave driver. We’ve been at it for hours.”

Hermione checks the time. “Thirty-eight minutes.”

“Well, it _feels_ like hours.”

“Once more, then we’ll call it quits at forty-five minutes.”

“Fine,” Harry sighs.

“Ready?” When he nods, she says, “Legilimens,” and slides into the chaos that is her best friend’s mind. He’s in Potions class, frustrated without the Prince’s book. Frustrated when he misses the snitch during the last game against Ravenclaw, then angry when the Ravenclaw seeker catches it. Angry watching Ginny and Dean sitting too close on the common room sofa, then sad, which gives way to sadness at Sirius’s death. She pulls out. “God job. I didn’t see any of the things I told you I’d be looking for.” In truth, she didn’t even look for them, decided Harry needed a boost to his confidence at the end of their impromptu lesson.

“Nice!” he says. “We’re done?”

“We are.”

“When do I have to do it again?”

“Next Saturday?”

“Nope. Hogsmeade. Why don’t you ever come with us anymore?”

Hermione shrugs. “You know. NEWTs.”

“As long as it’s not what Ginny always says.” He shudders. “Gods!” 

Hermione can feel herself blushing, which she knows is the wrong reaction. Normally she just rolls her eyes at Ginny’s teasing about the sex dungeon. Ginny would have known instantly that Hermione’s reaction was off, but Harry, being a boy, is oblivious. She stands up. “See you at Slughorn’s,” she says.

She will _not_ in fact see him at Slughorn’s. She and Severus decided that if they’re going to take the potion and do the day over, they don’t need to subject themselves to Slughorn’s tiresome party, since no one will remember that they didn’t go.

When she gets back to their quarters, Severus is scribbling furiously on a legal pad with a Muggle biro. 

“I’ve only ever seen you use a quill and parchment,” she observes.

“My image requires it, but both are ridiculous and impractical. It is not the fourteenth century.”

“What are you writing?”

“All the things I’d like to find out, and things that could possibly do to produce better outcomes on future iterations of today.”

Hermione smiles. So, he makes lists, just as she does. “How many times can we do it?”

“I have seven vials of the potion, which means _we_ can do it once and I can do it five more times—”

“Or _we_ can do it three times.”

“There are things I need to do that don’t involve you, and it would be more efficient if I could repeat the day more frequently.” He goes back to writing.

“I hate the idea of not knowing what happened.”

“I will tell you everything. I promise.”

“Fine. But no sex on those days because it’s not fair if you get to remember it and I don’t.”

He looks up. “So, you were planning on it the other days?”

 _Oh_. She feels her cheeks heat, and turns away. She just _assumed_. Obviously, she shouldn’t have. Now that they’ve shot their porno for the Dark Lord, there’s no reason to, is there? God. Could anything be more embarrassing?

“Hermione?”

She picks up her Arithmancy book and sits down on the sofa. She opens it and looks at the letters, which blur together. She hears him walk toward her, feels the sofa shift as he sits beside her, but still doesn’t look away from the page until he takes the book from her hands.

“Hermione, I was teasing.” 

She turns to look at him, but doesn’t trust herself to speak yet.

“Can you really believe that _I_ wouldn’t want _you_?”

“It’s hard to know what to believe.”

“Then believe this. I don’t know whether either of us is going to outlive the Dark Lord, or when this law will be repealed. If that happens, I assume our Binding will be dissolved, and you’ll be free. But for as long as we _are_ Bound, never doubt that I find you desirable. I’ll never expect anything of you, and we can return to our previous arrangement if you wish. But if…if you want me, I am amenable.”

She has no idea what will happen after the Dark Lord is defeated— _if_ he can be defeated—but for now, she does not want to return to their previous arrangement. This may be only a temporary marriage of convenience, but her temporary husband finds her desirable, and she finds him so as well. For now, that’s enough.

* * *

The Dark Lord is not yet in the drawing room when Severus gets there. Most of the others are there, but some have not yet arrived. Catching sight of Lucius talking to Dolohov and the new recruits, he walks toward them. Now that he isn’t suffering from the Cruciatus, he has no trouble coming up with the other one’s name. Montgomery, who graduated the year before Levin. Both Slytherins. Severus hasn’t met the third recruit before, a recent Durmstrang graduate. 

All three young men are nervous, of course. Levin looks as though he wishes he could do a runner. It’s a damn shame he’s here. Severus was seriously tempted to let the boy apprentice, and would have in a world without the Dark Lord. He’s a smart boy, and Severus thought he knew better than to be hoodwinked by this gang of thugs. Then again, Severus was smart, too. But it was one thing to join up in 1979, when Tom Riddle was charismatic, apparently rational, and had a nose. Now? What are these fuckwits thinking?

Severus looks around. Doholov has made his way across the room where he’s talking to Bellatrix. Montgomery and the kid from Durmstrang are listening to a story Lucius is telling. Levin is chewing at his lower lip and looks about to draw blood. Severus puts his mouth near the boy’s ear and whispers, “There’s still time.”

Levin’s eyes widen, and he looks around nervously. “Really?” 

“Yes, but you have to go _now_. Walk—quickly, but not fast enough to draw attention—straight to the Apparition chamber and get the fuck out of here.”

Levin starts for the door, and Severus glances at Dolohov, whose eyes are on Bellatrix’s cleavage. No one is looking at Levin. The other recruits haven’t noticed he’s gone. Before they do, Severus makes his way toward the middle of the room. He stops to join Yaxley and Macnair, only half listening to their conversation as he watches the last of the Death Eaters straggle in. 

A few minutes later, the Dark Lord enters and the low hum of conversation subsides.

* * *

The Dark Lord’s incursion is less painful than usual, now that the madman has spent most of his energy torturing Dolohov for misplacing one of his promised recruits. Severus can practically feel the bastard leering as he watches what ought to be private memories between Severus and Hermione. He sees Hermione telling Severus about trying to teach Potter Occlumency, Hermione frustrated and Severus amused.

“How arrogant your Mudblood is, to think that she can teach Potter when she cannot even master the art herself.”

“I have allowed her to believe she has mastered it, at least in part,” Severus says. “Her overconfidence makes her more vulnerable.”

“Quite so. You have done well, Severus. You may leave us now. I know that you are not one for revels, and you have your own entertainment at home,” he leers.

“Thank you, my lord.” 

As Severus walks toward the door, Bellatrix falls into step beside him. “What did you say to that boy?” she hisses as soon as they’re out of the drawing room. 

“Which boy?” he asks, continuing toward the Apparition chamber.

She grabs his arm to stop him. “Don’t be cute with me, Snape.”

“I have been called many things in my life, Bella, but never _cute_.”

“Legilimens,” she snarls.


	27. Chapter 27

The moment Bellatrix is in his mind, Severus turns the tables, digging through her memories with the same ruthless brutality the Dark Lord used on him the previous day. He can feel Bellatrix’s rising panic. She had no idea he’s this good. He suspects that Lucius may have some idea, but the Dark Lord doesn’t, and neither do the rest of these arseholes.

Not only are the things he sees in the mad witch’s mind enough to turn his stomach, but he feels a headache coming on. He’s heard of this, that it can happen when one performs Legilimency on the insane. Ignoring the headache, he presses on, past one horror after another, until he finds what he’s looking for. The special task the Dark Lord gave her. The precious article he entrusted to her, a golden cup that once belonged to Helga Hufflepuff but now exudes a noxious aura that can only be from the Horcrux inside it. He watches Bellatrix take her precious cargo to Gringott’s and secure it in her vault, protecting it with the spells that will multiply the treasures around it and heat them to burning.

When he withdraws from her mind, she opens her mouth, but before she can make a sound, he stuns her and drags her into the Apparition chamber with him. Thankfully, it is empty. He side-alongs her, not to the gates of Hogwarts, but to an alley in the dodgiest part of Cokeworth. There, he Obliviates her, then hits her with a Confundus charm. He leaves her dazed and wandering amid the discarded syringes and homeless Muggles, and walks toward his house. 

From the outside, it’s as dilapidated and disreputable as the rest of the neighborhood, but inside it’s clean and comfortable. He gets a headache potion from the cabinet in the bathroom, then takes a pinch of Floo powder from the bowl on the mantel and throws it into the fireplace, calling, “Malfoy Manor.”

“Severus,” Narcissa says from the fireplace.

“Has the meeting ended?”

“Yes, most of them have left.”

“Is Lucius free to speak to me?”

“I’ll see,” she says, and disappears from the grate.

A moment later, Lucius appears. “Severus?”

“Can you come through? I’m at Spinner’s End.”

“What are you doing there?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here. Can you come?”

Lucius disappears for a moment, then the fireplace flares and he steps through into Severus’s living room. “Why aren’t you at Hogwarts?”

“Because you can’t Floo to my quarters at Hogwarts.”

“Severus, why am I here?”

Severus expels a breath and drags his hand through his hair. “I need to use your library.”

“At this time of night? Why didn’t you just stay at the Manor, then?”

“Not tonight. Tomorrow.”

“Of course. It is at your disposal.”

Severus hesitates. “Does the Dark Lord ever use the library?”

Lucius looks at him long and hard. “If this is something that is going to get my wife or son killed, the answer is no.”

Severus returns his friend’s stare. “Continuing to do what we are doing is likely to get one or both of them killed, and you as well.”

The moment stretches, the tension between the two men almost palpable, until Lucius sighs and sits in an armchair. “Are you some kind of savage? Not even offering me a drink?”

Severus pours two tumblers of Old Ogden’s and hands one to his friend, then sits in the other armchair. “You do know he’s stark raving mad?”

“Of course I know. He’s living in _my_ house, isn’t he?” Lucius takes a sip of his whiskey. “Speaking of madmen and madwomen, my lunatic sister-in-law appears to have disappeared.”

“I’m sure you’re devastated.”

“I don’t suppose you know anything about that?”

“Of course not.” Severus takes a drink and then sets the glass down. “The library. Does he ever go in there?”

“No. He appears no longer to possess the attention span required for reading. Any research he requires, he delegates to one of his lackeys. In general, as I am the nearest lackey to hand, that would be me.”

“If I came to use the library, would the wards alert him that I was there?”

“No, though they would alert Cissy and me.”

“Of course.”

“What’s the earliest I could arrive?”

“Tomorrow?”

Severus hesitates. “Today.”

“It would appear that I am surrounded by madmen.”

“There’s a potion that allows me to repeat the day. I’ll remember what happens today, but you won’t.”

“And neither will the Dark Lord, or my wife’s lunatic sister, for whose disappearance you are no doubt responsible?” Lucius takes a sip of his whiskey. “I’m afraid His Nibs is rather cross about that.”

“No accounting for taste.”

Lucius gives him a small smile. “Did we have this conversation yesterday, by any chance?”

“No.” This time yesterday, he was watching Dolohov rape his wife, something that requires Occlumency to completely shut out. Knowing that she doesn’t remember consoles him, but it can’t make him forget.

“Do you swear that whatever you’re planning won’t put my son in any more danger than he is already in?”

“I’m going to do everything I can to make sure he and Cissy survive, Lucius, and hopefully you and I as well.”

“Not me, if you don’t mind. I’d rather be dead than Kissed.”

“You got off before.”

“Those old buzzards on the Wizengamot aren’t stupid enough to believe I’ve been Imperiused a second time.”

“You won’t get the Kiss if you help me, and I testify for you.”

“Help you do what, precisely?”

“Kill the Dark Lord.”

“You know as well as I do that that is not possible.”

“It is if I destroy his Horcruxes. Do you know how many he’s made?”

“No. Is that what you want in my library?”

“Yes.”

“I can save you the trip. I know exactly which books you need, and I can bring them to you now.”

Severus shakes his head. “Tomorrow morning they’d be right back in your library. How early can I come?”

“Half ten?” Lucius suggests.

“You fucking sybarite,” Severus scoffs. “I’ll Floo you at seven.”

“You will do no such thing.”

“I will, and you’ll let me through.”

“I won’t remember any of this in the morning. What’s to stop me from closing the Floo and going back to sleep?”

“Tell me what to say so you won’t.”

Lucius falls silent and stares into the middle distance. At last he sighs. “Tell me that you know who Cissy’s father was.”

“Not Cygnus Black?”

“Not Cygnus Black,” Lucius confirms. “A Muggleborn wizard Druella had an affair with.”

“Fuck.”

“Indeed. So much for _toujours pur_ , no?”

“How long have you known?”

“Not long. When Bella got out of Azkaban, her kidneys were near failure. They couldn’t be cured by magic. The healers thought Cissy might be able to donate one, but when they did the tests, they found that the two were only half-sisters, genetically.”

“Does the Dark Lord know? Does Draco?”

“No one knows, except Druella, Cissy, and me. And now you.”

“What about the healers?”

Lucius shakes his head. “If you had any idea how many people I had to Obliviate that day.”

* * *

Hermione is asleep on the sofa in the robes she was wearing in case the Dark Lord asked for her. Severus crouches and shakes her gently. “Time for bed.”

“Bed?” She sits up. “I don’t have to go to…him?”

“No.”

“Did he torture you?”

“No. Tonight was Dolohov’s turn.”

“Good.” She frowns. “I shouldn’t be happy about anyone being tortured.”

“I believe an exception can be made in this case. Now, come on. It’s late.”

Hermione stands, then looks uncertainly from his bedroom door to hers.

“As you prefer,” he says.

She walks toward her room, and he suppresses a sigh. She doesn’t close the door behind her, and emerges a moment later with her toothbrush in her hand. “I needed this.” 


	28. Chapter 28

When Severus wakes amid a cloud of curls with his arm around his sleeping wife, his first thought is satisfaction, followed immediately by panic. She should have woken in her own bed, as she did yesterday. Since she didn’t, that means the potion didn’t work. It means Levin could tell someone why he fled before being Marked, and the Dark Lord will know Severus betrayed him. It means that if Bellatrix survived her night on the streets of Spinner’s End, she is going to head straight for Malfoy Manor. She won’t remember what he saw in her mind, but she’ll know someone Obliviated her. Why didn’t he take her to London or the Forbidden Forest? Why did he have to be lazy and dump her practically on his own doorstep? 

He sits up, his heart racing. Hermione wakes and looks at him, her smile fading when she sees his expression. “What’s wrong?”

“It didn’t work,” he said. “It worked the day before, but it didn’t work yesterday. Maybe it doesn’t work if two people take it. I should have thought of that. I am such a—”

“How do you know it didn’t work?”

“Because you’re _here_ ,” he almost shouts. “You should have woken in your own bed. You shouldn’t—”

“I did.”

“Wait, what?”

“I woke up in my bed and came in here. You didn’t wake up. Well, you sort of did, halfway, enough to put your arm around me, but then you went right back to sleep.” 

He falls back against the pillows and takes several deep breaths to calm himself.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” she says. “I suppose I should have thought of that and stayed in my own bed.”

“It’s all right. If it happens again tomorrow, I’ll know not to panic.” He checks the time and gets out of bed. “Time to Floo Lucius.”

* * *

While Severus is at Malfoy Manor, Hermione pores over the books in Severus’s collection that make any mention of Horcruxes. She and Severus have both been over them all before, but she rereads the relevant passages anyway, in case they missed something.

She feels the wards shift, and tenses. Severus isn’t alone. Someone else is with him. When the door opens and she sees Lucius Malfoy enter behind Severus, her mouth falls open in shock, then snaps shut in rage. “What is _he_ doing here?”

“He’s going to help us research.” Severus sets a stack of books down on the table, and Malfoy places another stack beside it.

“Good morning, Miss Gr— Sorry, Mrs. Snape,” Malfoy says, polite as you please, as though he doesn’t think she’s a filthy abomination, as though he hasn’t taught his son to be as much a bigot as he is.

“Why would he want to do that?” she asks Severus, refusing to look at Malfoy. “He’s a Death Eater.”

“I am also a Death Eater,” Severus points out.

“But you don’t want to be. You regret ever getting mixed up with that maniac.”

“I would wager, Mrs. Snape,” Malfoy says smoothly, “that at least a third of the Death Eaters very much regret getting mixed up with that maniac. I have for years. I knew as soon as he returned looking like…well, whatever it is that he looks like, that he was completely mad.”

“Then why didn’t you do something about it?”

“I’m trying to do something about it now, my dear.”

“Don’t _my dear_ me, Mr. Malfoy.”

“My apologies, Mrs. Snape.”

Hermione narrows her eyes at him. What kind of mind game is he playing? This is not the Lucius Malfoy she knows. Though, in fairness, she _doesn’t_ know him, not really. Her eyes move from Malfoy to Severus, who is not, she has come to realize, the Professor Snape she thought she knew either.

Malfoy looks at Hermione with every appearance of sincerity. “You have every reason to dislike me. I’ve done terrible things in the past. Things I wish that potion would allow me to undo. But it can only let one repeat twenty-four hours. Would that it were possible to repeat twenty-four years.”

“I still don’t understand why you’d want to. Why the sudden change of heart?”

“It isn’t sudden. It’s been a long time coming. The evidence of my own eyes and ears since the Dark Lord’s return two years ago has been at war with everything I was raised to believe, everything my friends and family purported to believe. Then, after I had begun to question it, the Dark Lord forced my son to take the Mark. My only child, at sixteen.”

“Your son seems an enthusiastic enough Death Eater,” she scoffs, but even as she says it, she thinks of Malfoy sobbing in Myrtle’s lab, the fear and despair she saw in his mind.

“I know there is no love lost between you and Draco. One of my many regrets is that I did not recognize the destructiveness of my life choices until my son’s formative years were past.” He sighs. “I have discovered, rather belatedly, some things that make the views I used to hold markedly less persuasive.”

“What views might those be, specifically?”

“Blood supremacy.”

She raises a brow. “Does this mean you no longer believe that I stole my magic? That I am an abomination and should have my wand snapped?”

“I no longer believe those things, no.”

“Why?”

“I’ve learned some rather surprising things about my own family history.”

Hermione’s eyes widen. 

“There is also the incontrovertible fact that two of the most powerful wizards I’ve ever known, Severus Snape and Tom Riddle, are Halfbloods, and you Miss— Mrs. Snape, have consistently outperformed not only my son but every other Pureblood and witch and wizard matriculating at Hogwarts. There is only so much cognitive dissonance an intelligent wizard can ignore.”

Hermione looks at Malfoy a long time. Finally, she asks, “Do you really want to kill the Dark Lord?”

“More than I have ever wanted anything in my life.”

She sighs and looks at Severus. “Fine. He can help.”

Severus looks at her the way he used to in Potions class and says, “I was not aware that I needed your permission.”

Malfoy shakes his head and smiles. “You’re a married man now, Severus. Of _course_ you need her permission.”

* * *

Levin looks distinctly uncomfortable when Severus arrives. Like most Slytherins, he’s Pureblood, and has probably never been in a Muggle coffee shop before, but Severus didn’t dare meet with him anywhere they might be seen. The young man stands. “It’s good to see you, Professor. I was surprised when you owled me.”

Severus sits, after which Levin takes his seat again. “I have reconsidered the request you made last year, Mr. Levin.”

“Request?” Levin draws in a surprised breath. “Sir, do you mean the apprenticeship?”

“I do.”

“Thank you!”

“Does that mean you are still interested?”

“Of course I am, sir.”

“And you have no other obligations that would prevent you from beginning an apprenticeship? No other commitments?”

“No, sir.” He pauses, brows furrowing slightly. “Well, I have one other… commitment, but it won’t interfere with an apprenticeship.”

“What commitment is that?”

The young man hesitates.

“Out with it,” Severus snaps.

“I can’t, that is, I’m not really at liberty to—”

“You’ve been Marked,” Severus cuts in. He stands and extends his hand. “I wish you the best of luck, Levin.”

“But sir,” Levin protests, “it won’t interfere. I can still apprentice with you.”

Severus takes his seat again. “Have you ever read an apprenticeship contract? An apprentice must be one hundred percent committed to the work he does for his master. There is no room for…conflicting commitments.”

“I haven’t made the other commitment yet.” Levin looks around and drops his voice. “I said I would, but I haven’t actually been Marked yet. And I don’t want to be, if it’s going to cost me the apprenticeship.”

“Are you certain?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“You’re very quick to abandon your…other commitment. Will you be as quick to abandon your apprenticeship if something better comes along?”

“No, sir. I’ve always wanted to apprentice with you. This other thing…well, to be perfectly honest, I was already having second thoughts about it.”

Severus fixes him with a cold stare until he can tell it’s all the boy can do not to squirm, then sighs. “Very well. But I would lie low for the present. Things could get uncomfortable for you because of your decision. For me as well, I’m afraid, if anyone were to know that my offer was the reason for your decision.”

“I won’t say a word, Professor. I swear.”

“Severus. You’re an apprentice now, David, not a student.”

Levin breaks out in a grin. “I won’t say a word, Severus.”


	29. Chapter 29

They’re _laughing_. 

Hermione—who was on the sofa with one book, frostily ignoring Lucius, who was reading another book at the table when Severus left—is now sitting next to Lucius at the table. They have a large leather-bound book open between them, and they’re laughing. Hermione. Is laughing. With Lucius Malfoy.

“Having fun?” Severus asks.

Lucius smiles. “Severus, your wife is perfectly delightful.”

Hermione scoots her chair farther away from Lucius and schools her features into an expression of aloof indifference.

Severus rolls his eyes. He has yet to meet the woman Lucius can’t charm. He was sure Hermione would be the first, but the brightest witch of her age is exhibiting signs of succumbing, though she’s still fighting it.

“Now that I know her a bit better,” Lucius continues, “I’m doubly glad Draco didn’t marry her.” He gives Hermione a conspiratorial smile. “You’d have eaten the poor boy alive, my dear.”

Hermione rolls her eyes, but can’t quite suppress a self-satisfied smirk. 

“Would the mutual admiration society be so good as to update me on its research?” Severus sneers.

Lucius gestures to Hermione, indicating that she should answer.

“There’s no evidence of anyone making more than four of them,” Hermione says. “Even then, the wizard exhibited signs of madness.”

Severus counts on his fingers. “The diary, the ring, the locket, the cup. That could be all of them.”

“Or there could be more,” Hermione says.

“How do we find out for certain?” Lucius asks.

Severus and Hermione exchange a look. Hermione bites her lip.

“What?” Lucius asks.

“I need to perform Legilimency on the Dark Lord,” Severus says.

Lucius stares at him. “He’ll kill you, Severus. And you said you don’t know if the spell will hold if you die.”

“He will if he knows. Or he’ll try, anyway.”

“Try?” Lucius says. “Since when does the madman formerly known as Tom Riddle merely _try_ to kill anyone?”

Severus looks at Lucius for a long moment. “If someone were to create a distraction, perhaps?”

“A possibly fatal distraction?” Lucius asks. 

“Possibly.”

“Which would not be _permanently_ fatal, since you’ve consumed the potion?”

Severus nods.

“Well, at least there is one bright spot in this dismal plan,” Lucius says. “Since there will be no permanent consequences, I will take great pleasure in telling the bastard what I actually think of him before he tortures and kills me.”

* * *

“Crucio.” 

Dolohov writhes and screams. Montgomery and the boy from Durmstrang watch in horror. Levin never showed, and the other two look as though they wish they hadn’t either.

Severus and Lucius stand together through the events Severus has witnessed twice before, until the Dark Lord is ready to interrogate his spy. Severus shows him the same memories he did the night before, with one addition: Hermione telling Severus what Potter told her about the Horcruxes.

When the Dark Lord pulls out, he hisses in anger. Nagini, curled at his feet, senses his agitation and slithers up her master’s body. Severus skims the surface of the Dark Lord’s mind, sees the ring, the cup, and a jeweled tiara. _And you, my pet,_ the Dark Lord thinks, stroking the snake.

The crazy bastard made his _familiar_ a Horcrux? God. And to think Severus made fun for Hermione about the Kneazle kitten. He starts to slip out, but before he can, the Dark Lord turns the spell on him, tearing back into his mind again, plundering, ransacking with meticulous brutality. Severus slams his shields into place, and throws the madman out. 

He’s never done that before, never dared let the bastard know he could. As the Dark Lord raises his wand, Lucius shouts, “Crucio!” and turns his wand on the Dark Lord. Severus takes off running for the door, narrowly dodging Bellatrix’s entrail-expelling curse. Once he’s out the door, he slams it and wards it shut before continuing toward the Apparition chamber. Inside, he turns and Disapparates just as the door bursts open and Bellatrix hurls a bolt of green at the space where he was standing.

When he appears outside the gates, he Disillusions himself and flies toward the castle. Five cracks of Apparition rend the air behind him, and two bolts of green barely miss him. A moment later, he is out of their range, and enters the castle. He leans against the door and takes several ragged breaths. Pain rips through his arm as the Dark Lord Summons him. 

He walks down the corridor toward his quarters, trying not to think about what Lucius is suffering. At least he won’t remember.

Hermione is waiting, dressed in robes in case she needs to go. He shakes his head.

“What’s wrong?” she asks when he winces.

“He’s Summoning me back.” He removes his outer robe and tosses it and the mask onto the sofa.

“You’re not going?”

“He’ll kill me if I do.” He walks to the cabinet where he keeps his potions and withdraws a vial and walks into his bedroom. Hermione follows him, watching as he removes his boots and lies on the bed, grimacing as the pain in his arm ramps up. 

She looks at the vial. “Draught of Living Death? Severus, do you really think—”

“Dreamless Sleep isn’t strong enough. The Mark is going to burn all night, and this is the only thing that’s strong enough to keep me unconscious while it does. You know what to do in the morning?”

Hermione nods. “The Wiggenweld potion. But will it be necessary? Or will the effect of the Draught of Living Death be negated naturally because of the Groundhog Day potion?”

“I don’t know, but it’s in my stores, just in case.” He opens the vial and swallows the contents. “I’ll see you in the morning.”


	30. Chapter 30

Hermione wakes in her own bed for the fourth Saturday in a row. She gets up and goes into Severus’s room. He’s asleep, shirtless and under the duvet as on the previous day rather than fully dressed and on top of it as he was last night after taking the Draught of Living Death. She slips into bed beside him and wonders what happened last night. He was in too much pain from the Summons he was ignoring to tell her before he succumbed to unconsciousness.

She can tell by the way his chest rises and falls that he is merely asleep, not still unconscious from the Draught of Living Death. She resists the urge to touch him because she wants him to sleep. She can’t even imagine the stress he’s been under, spending three evenings in a row with that monster in his mind.

There are three vials of the potion left, one more day for both of them, or three for Severus. If they need it. Lucius wanted to take it as well yesterday so he would remember, but Severus said he needed to conserve it, and Lucius agreed.

No, not _Lucius_. He’s Mr. Malfoy—Draco’s blood-purist father, condescending snob, dangerous Death Eater. Even if he is her husband’s best friend—no accounting for taste—she’s not going to let him tease and flirt and charm her out of her animosity.

Severus stirs, and he opens his eyes.

“It worked,” she says. “I woke in my own bed, and you woke like this, even though you fell asleep still in your robes.”

“If it hadn’t, Lucius would be dead, or worse.” He looks at the Dark Mark.

“It doesn’t hurt now?”

“No.” He gets out of bed. “Even though I know Lucius is probably all right, I’ll feel better after I talk to him.”

“Of course.” Hermione sits up in bed and listens through the open door to the muffled voices from the sitting room, both Severus’s and Lucius’s. When she walks into the sitting room, Severus is at his desk writing a letter. 

“Mipsy,” he says, sealing the scroll. When the elf appears, he says, “Would you take this to the owlery and have it sent to David Levin, Whitechapel, London, please?”

“Just like yesterday, Master?”

Severus stares at her. “You remember that?”

“Mipsy is not old and senile like Iggy or drunk most of the time like Aggy. Mipsy remembers.” Then she is gone.

“Well,” Hermione says.

“Well, indeed. Perhaps the Malfoy elves may be of assistance to us at some point.”

“Speaking of which, will your BFF be inflicting himself on us again today?”

“You didn’t seem to mind yesterday.”

She rolls her eyes. “God.”

“You seemed as susceptible to his charm as every other witch I’ve known.”

“He’s a blood-purist wanker. And _you_ are a _stupid_ wanker.”

“What have I done to upset you?”

“Being jealous of Lucius Malfoy, of all people. Honestly.”

“He’s handsome and charming, and yesterday, you acted as though you liked him.”

“I don’t like him. I like _you_ , you stupid wanker. God.”

Lucius was right. He really doesn’t understand women. And perhaps Hermione is as well, and he really _is_ a stupid wanker. But she obviously wants him anyway, so he kisses her.

* * *

“I’m probably the only person alive to Crucio the Dark Lord,” Lucius says. “It’s a pity I don’t remember any of it.”

“I think it’s probably a good thing you don’t remember,” Severus says. “I can only imagine what he did to you after that.”

Lucius smiles at Hermione. “I was terribly heroic, wasn’t I?”

“Considering that you’re in part responsible for inflicting the bastard on all of us,” she says archly, “I’d say it’s the least you could do.”

Lucius looks at Severus and sighs. “The ingratitude of the woman.”

Hermione narrows her eyes at Severus, daring him to smirk or look in any way amused, but he has the good sense not to. Satisfied, she starts writing a new list. “So, now we have the diary, the ring, the locket, the cup, the diadem, and the snake. Six. More than anyone else has attempted. But what if there’s a seventh?” When Severus hesitates, she demands, “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing. I am convinced that he only intended to make six. He’s always been a bit fixated on the number seven, and with the part of his soul still in his own body, that would make seven parts.”

“He has,” Lucius agrees. “That makes sense.”

“Now that we know what they are, we need to find out _where_ they are,” Severus says. He turns to Lucius. “Though the cup is in your sister-in-law’s vault.”

“If we kill her and her husband, Cissy inherits her vault.” When Hermione stares at him, Lucius laughs. “So, killing the Dark Lord is all right, but killing his most diabolical henchmen is not?”

“ _You_ are one of his diabolical henchmen,” she points out.

“Shades of gray, my dear. I am nowhere near as diabolical as the Lestranges.”

Hermione looks at Severus for confirmation.

“He’s really not,” Severus says. “He mainly just bankrolls the operation.”

“And a terrible return on investment I’ve received, let me tell you,” Lucius huffs.

“Well, what did you expect? Giving money to a creature like that?”

“He wasn’t a _creature_ when we were recruited, was he, Severus? He really did talk quite a good game, back in the day.” He looks at Hermione. “He was terribly handsome when he had a nose. All the witches were mad about him.”

“And now you no longer have to be jealous,” Severus says, “since you get to be the fairest in the land.”

“I can tell by your tone that that’s some Muggle cultural reference you know I won’t get.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Would the two of you stop? You’re worse than Harry and Ron.”

Severus and Lucius exchange an astonished look.

“Back to the matter at hand,” Hermione says. “We can’t just go around killing people, even if they are sadistic murderers.” She hesitates, then looks at Severus. “Can we?”

“We can, and we must,” Severus says. “If you had any idea how many people the Lestranges have killed, never mind the people they’ve only tortured, like Frank and Alice Longbottom.”

Hermione sighs. “I suppose you’re right.” She draws a line through the diary and the ring on her list, and puts a check mark beside the cup. “What about the diadem and the locket? What do they look like?”

“I’ll show you,” he says, and when she casts the spell, shows her the Dark Lord’s memory of the locket and the diadem.

“The diadem looks familiar,” Hermione says. 

“From where?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to remember.”

“Show me,” Lucius says. After Severus does, he says, “That odious Dolores Umbridge has the locket. I saw her wearing it at the Ministry just the other day.”

“It would take very little to convince me to kill _her_ ,” Hermione says, putting a check mark next to the locket. “Oh, my God!” she gasps. “I know where the diadem is.”

“Where?” Severus asks.

“The Room of Lost Things. I can picture it, sitting on top of a bust in there. I remember thinking that it looked like the one on the statue of Rowena Ravenclaw in _Hogwarts, A History_. It didn’t occur to me that it actually _was_ the same one. We could go get that one right now!”

“And tomorrow morning it would be right back where it is now,” Lucius says.

“If we take the potion,” Severus says. “Now that we know what all seven Horcruxes are, there’s no reason to repeat the day. We just need to find them and destroy them, and that can only be done on days we don’t take the potion.”

Hermione sets down her quill. “So, we can get the diadem today, and the basilisk fangs.”

“You know where to obtain basilisk fangs?” Lucius asks.

“From the basilisk Harry killed in the Chamber of Secrets. Its body is still down there, as far as I know.”

“And you know how to get into the Chamber?”

“The entrance is in Moaning Myrtle’s lav. The only problem is you have to speak in Parseltongue to open it. Harry can do it, but then we’d have to tell him why we wanted to open it.”

“Tell him I want to harvest parts of the basilisk for potions ingredients,” Severus says.


	31. Chapter 31

Until getting a dose of Lucius Malfoy, Hermione thought Lavender Brown was high maintenance. Lucius was incensed that Hermione didn’t tell him how disgusting it was down in the Chamber of Secrets. Severus laughed and said he ought to have known when Hermione acquiesced so readily to skipping that little adventure.

After returning, Lucius had to Transfigure one of Severus’s robes to fit him, insisting that a Tergeo wouldn’t get rid of the stench, and that his own robes—which were Acrumantula silk, and hand-tailored in Paris—would have to be burned.

Hermione left him complaining to Severus that he looked like a Muggle undertaker, or perhaps an interrogator at the Spanish Inquisition, and headed off to wash her hair before beginning the tedious and time-consuming process of styling it for Slughorn’s party. While she does that, Severus will retrieve the diadem from the Room of Lost Things.

As she works through her hair one section at a time, she replays their conversation about the Horcruxes. What if there are not seven parts of Riddle’s soul in all? What if there are seven Horcruxes? If so, everything they’re doing will be for nothing, and the madman will survive their attempt to kill him. All this will have been for nothing. There are three vials of the potion remaining—why not repeat the day once more in an attempt to be sure?

Because Severus _is_ sure, she realizes. He must be. He’s an exceptionally cautious man. There is no way he’d just shrug and say, _oh well, must be only six, then_. He wouldn’t risk all of their lives this way, risk the fate of the entire magical world.

If he isn’t accepting without proof that there are only six, that can mean only one thing. There are in fact seven, and he knows what the seventh is. But why keep it a secret? What difference does it make what book or cup or piece of jewelry the maniac used to house a seventh piece of his soul? Severus would only have reason to hide it from her if the object were of some significance, and she can’t imagine what object that might be.

She replays Severus’s words in her mind. _I am convinced that he only intended to make six_. He didn’t say the Dark Lord only _made_ six, but that he only _intended_ to make six. Is that significant? Did Severus just happen to phrase it that way, or does it mean that Voldemort only intended to make six, but actually created a seventh Horcrux unintentionally? In her experience, Severus never just happens to phrase things a certain way. He’s precise to the point of obsessiveness in how he communicates.

Hermione thinks about the research she and Lucius did yesterday. In one of the books, they found an instance of a Horcrux being created unintentionally by a wizard in the sixteenth century. He cast the killing curse on his wife, and a fragment of his soul lodged in their son. The wizard only realized it years later, when he survived several attempts on his life that should have been successful, but were not. As his son grew older, the wizard realized that he and the young man shared an unusual connection, could see one another’s thoughts on occasion. When the son died, many years later, the father died immediately, succumbing belatedly to one of the curses that should have killed him many years before.

Harry can see the Dark Lord’s thoughts on occasion. Harry, whose mother Voldemort killed in his presence, who could have been made an unintentional Horcrux like the boy in the sixteenth century. 

Hermione’s hand stills and she stares into the mirror, unseeing. That’s what Severus didn’t want to tell her. That Harry has to die in order for the Dark Lord to be destroyed. Her heart starts to race, her breath coming faster until she is nearly hyperventilating. Occlumency. She can use it to shut down the panic, then confront Severus after she’s calmed down and no longer wants to kill him.

The wards tell her he’s back, but Occlumency allows her to resist the temptation to march out there and confront him. It won’t do any good. It won’t save Harry.

When she’s dressed in the black satin robes, hair and makeup finished, she walks into the sitting room. Severus is in black dress robes, his hair shining and looking less lank than usual, but the effect is lost on her. His initial look of appreciation at her appearance turns to apprehension when he sees her expression.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“You lying to me is wrong.”

“I haven’t lied to you.”

“Not technically, you sneaky Slytherin bastard.”

“Hermione, I—”

“He only _intended_ to make six.” 

Severus sighs.

“When were you planning on telling me that my best friend has to die?” she demands. When he doesn’t answer, she continues, “What else aren’t you telling me, Severus?”

“Nothing.”

“Why should I believe you? How _can_ I believe you?”

“I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Open your mouth. Let words come out. It’s very simple. I’ll bet even Crabbe and Goyle could manage it.”

Again, he doesn’t answer.

“Did you tell Lucius?”

“No.”

“You’re probably lying about that, too,” she scoffs. “How do I know everything you’ve ever said to me isn’t a lie?”

“I suppose you just have to trust me.”

“What if I can’t?” She turns away from him, and a glint of metal on his desk catches her eye. It’s the diadem, now blackened in places, the largest stone cracked down the middle. She turns to look at Severus. “You destroyed it?”

“Yes. I’d have waited for you, but it…it makes you think things.”

“What kind of things?”

“It preys on your fears and insecurities.”

“What did it make you think?”

He hesitates. “If it were here now, it would make me think that you might never trust me again.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

“I know. I’d prefer not to tell you.”

“Of course you would. You’d _prefer_ never to tell me anything!”

“You want to know? Fine. It showed me something that happened the first day I took the potion, when I had to bring you to the Dark Lord.”

“What happened?”

“To punish me, and to reward Dolohov, he…he let Dolohov have you.”

“Oh, my God.” A wave of nausea churns inside her.

“You didn’t remember, so I didn’t see any point in telling you. I was only trying to protect you.”

“That’s not your choice to make. It happened to me, even if I don’t remember it. I have a right to know, even if the thought of it makes me sick.”

“It didn’t, when the Horcrux showed it to me.”

“What?”

“The night it happened, you screamed and fought. When the Horcrux showed me the memory, you…you liked it, and you said—” He falls silent.

“What did it say?”

“Nothing I’d like to repeat, if you wouldn’t mind.”

She lets it go. This isn’t keeping things from her. This is him not wanting to share his deepest fears and insecurities with her. She can well imagine what the Horcrux might have shown her, and she wouldn’t be eager to share that with him either.

“Is there anything else you haven’t told me?” she asks. “Anything I should know?”

When he hesitates, she knows there is. “You’ve seen that I can keep the Dark Lord out. There’s no reason for you to continue hiding things from me now, unless you simply _want_ to. And if that’s the case…” She sighs. If that’s the case, then their relationship will never be anything more than a twisted parody of a marriage. Maybe that’s all he wants it to be. She isn’t sure what _she_ wants it to be, once this is all over, but for now, as long as they’re Bound, she wants to be able to trust him.

He takes a breath and expels it audibly. “There’s one more thing I haven’t told you.”

“Only one?”

“Yes.”

“Do you swear?”

“I swear.”

“What is it?”

“If Draco is unable to kill Albus, I am to do it.”

She feels a sickening lurch in her stomach. “Why? Severus, you can’t!”

“I’ve taken an Unbreakable Vow.”

“To whom?”

“Narcissa Malfoy.”

“That goddamn family!” she shouts. “Fucking Draco and his smooth-talking snake of a father are bad enough, but _this_? That bitch. I’ll kill her. I swear to God, when this is finished, I will kill her.”

“There’s someone else you might want to kill instead. I made that vow with Albus’s knowledge and approval. He asked me to kill him, since it will convince the Dark Lord irrefutably of my loyalty—and keep Draco from damaging his soul. It is for _the greater good_ , after all,” he says, the phrase dripping with irony.

Hermione deflates, her fury at the Malfoys shifting to anger—and then profound disappointment—at the man she and Harry and Ron have trusted so implicitly. “For the greater good of everyone but you,” she says, and puts her arms around him. “What about _your_ soul, Severus?”


	32. Chapter 32

“You know what time to have your headache?” Severus asks, holding the door of their quarters open for her.

Hermione nods. They’re going to leave early so Severus can change into his Death Eater robes and be ready to go the moment he’s Summoned. 

She is quiet as they walk down the dungeon corridor and up the stairs. On an iteration of this night that she doesn’t remember, Dolohov raped her. But it didn’t happen, not really. Just as the Dark Lord didn’t torture and kill Lucius Malfoy on the previous version of tonight. There he sat this afternoon, smiling and teasing and complaining about his stupid silk robes smelling like basilisk entrails. But he wasn’t killed, any more than she was raped. It didn’t really happen to her. Not to _this_ her, anyway.

She glances at Severus, walking beside her. It did happen to him, though. He had to see it, not once, but twice, thanks to the fragment of Tom Riddle’s rotten soul trapped in that diadem.

Slughorn nods hello when they arrive. He used to make a fuss over her at these things. Now that the wind appears to be blowing the Dark Lord’s way, Slughorn acts as though he might catch something communicable if he comes too near her. He even gives Harry, his former golden boy, a wide berth.

It’s almost more than Hermione can bear to look at Harry now, knowing that the scar on his forehead holds a sliver of the Dark Lord’s soul, and there’s no way to get it out. Or is there? Is there some way to remove a Horcrux from a living being?

Harry, oblivious to what’s inside him, begins to smile hello the way he normally would, then does a double take. Right. The robes. 

“Hi Harry, Luna,” she says.

“You look beautiful, Hermione,” Luna says, then looks at Severus, talking to someone Hermione doesn’t know a few meters away. “You and Professor Snape are beautiful together.”

Harry starts coughing as his drink goes down the wrong way. “Bloody hell, Luna. The things you say.”

Luna smiles serenely. “They’re a lovely couple, Harry.”

Harry looks as though he might lose his dinner. Hermione gives Luna’s hand a squeeze and goes off to mingle as Slughorn always urges them to do. It’s a strange feeling, knowing that today, for the first time in four days, what she says and does matters because other people will remember it.

She mingles, listening more than she speaks, and glancing occasionally at Harry or Severus, Harry because she can’t stop thinking about the Horcrux, and Severus because he looks so good in his dress robes that she can’t keep her eyes off him.

When a witch from one of those Balkan countries—Bosnia? Slovenia? Hermione met her earlier but now can’t remember—puts her hand on Severus’s arm and leans close to him, laughing, Hermione feels her fingers clench tighter around her glass.

Luna was right. They are a lovely couple. Hermione caught a glimpse of them in the mirror in Slughorn’s entry as they arrived, and she too was struck by how good they looked together, dressed as they are, both of them having taken pains with their hair so hers isn’t as wild nor his as lank as usual.

But lovely or not, they aren’t actually a couple. This is only temporary. Severus says so often enough.

The Croatian—or Serbian?—witch leans close to Severus again, and Hermione checks the time. She’s supposed to wait another ten minutes before getting a headache, but she’s sick of Slughorn’s oily hospitality and all these pretentious people and especially that Balkan bint pawing her husband.

“Severus,” she says, coming up beside him. “I’m afraid I have a headache. Would you mind if we left early?”

“Of course,” Severus says, then nods at the foreign witch before they make their way to the door. On their way out, they pass Luna talking to a Goblin, and Hermione stops briefly to ask her to make their excuses to Slughorn if he asks why they’ve gone.

“Are you nervous?” Hermione asks as they walk toward their quarters.

“Why would I be?”

“Because tonight it matters. You won’t be doing it over.”

“I’ve been before the Dark Lord countless times. And tonight, I know exactly what will happen. Levin is staying away, so it will be like the second iteration of the evening. He’ll punish Dolohov, pay little attention to me, and send me home unharmed.”

She nods, but worries anyway. He may be used to being called before that madman, but she isn’t used to waiting for him to return.

* * *

When Severus wakes, Hermione is in his bed. If she woke up here, then it’s finally Sunday, not Saturday again. He moves a lock of her hair out of his face, which causes her to stir. He kisses her shoulder, left bare by her vest.

She turns to face him. “Good morning.”

“Are you waking up for the first time?”

“Yes,” she says. “It’s Sunday, then?”

“It would appear so,” Severus says. Last night went off without a hitch, as he told Hermione it would. Still, after the stress of four nights in a row with the Dark Lord, he was exhausted, and was asleep the instant his head hit the pillow, despite the scantily clad witch in bed beside him.

“What do we do today?” asks the witch in question, whose barely-there sleep shorts and vest he can better appreciate than he could last night.

“Brew more of the potion, in case we need it,” he says. “But first, I think, maybe have a lie-in?”

She smiles, pressing her body against his and kissing him. 

He suggested a lie-in because the term is sufficiently vague, and could mean he simply wanted to go back to sleep for a few more hours. Though she appears to be as interested in sex as he is—which is very—he remains cautious, and initiates only when she signals by word or deed or look that she’d like him to. Gratifyingly, she wants him to quite often, and he is happy to oblige. Still, he is aware that this state of affairs is new, and might not last, that she may tire of him once her curiosity about her latest field of study has been satisfied. 

And then he gasps as he feels her magic twine with his, doing…something that he can’t quite name, but fervently hopes that it keeps doing. When it does, all coherent thought is blotted from his brain as he lies back and watches as she falls apart above him, dragging him after her into the most mind-blowing orgasm he’s ever experienced. 

“What in all the seven hells of Hades was _that_?” he asks when he’s capable of speech.

She gives him a smug smile. “A little something I found in one of those books from the Malfoy library.”

“You were supposed to be researching Horcruxes, not Dark sex magic.”

“It isn’t Dark, and I didn’t go looking for it. I just stumbled across it.”

“I have to say, I’m rather glad you did.”

“It’s a pity all three Malfoys are such horrid, bigoted arseholes. I’d really love to have free run of that library someday.”

“Once the Dark Lord is no longer encamped in the manor?”

“Of course,” she says, burrowing into his side.

Severus puts his arm around her. “I have an idea Lucius would be glad to give you free rein of his library once this is all over.” The scales have fallen from Lucius’s eyes since he learned of Cissy’s ancestry. Wondering whether there might be genetic skeletons in his own closet, he set about interrogating the portraits, and learned that generations of Malfoys before him had understood that a family tree grows weak without the infusion of new—and sometimes Muddy—blood from time to time.

“Once this is all over,” Hermione says, “Lucius Malfoy will have no reason to speak to me, let alone invite me to his library.”

Right. Because Severus and Hermione will no longer be married, and she will have no reason ever to see Lucius—or him, for that matter, once she passes her NEWTs and leaves Hogwarts—again. She’ll find another source of books on arcane sex magic, and another wizard on whom to try them out.

Severus disengages their tangled limbs. “I’m going to have a shower, then put in an appearance in the Great Hall for breakfast. I suggest you do the same, lest your friends speculate about your absence.”

He sees a flash of something in Hermione’s eyes that he can’t read, but it’s gone in an instant. “Right,” she says, getting out of bed and walking toward the door without a backwards glance. 

* * *

“Are you feeling better, Hermione?” Harry asks.

“Yes, thanks.” She almost forgot about the headache she manufactured to leave Slughorn’s party early the previous evening.

“Those robes,” Ginny says. “They were gorgeous. They must have cost a fortune.”

Hermione realizes that she has no idea what they cost, since Severus paid for them while she was still in the fitting room. “Thanks,” is all she says. Ginny looked lovely last night, but that’s because Ginny is naturally beautiful, not because she was dressed in expensive robes her family can’t afford.

“Where did you get them?”

“Madam Malkin’s.”

“Did Snape buy them for you?”

“Ron, would you pass the sausages, please?” Hermione asks instead of answering, then says, “Ginny, how did you get your hair to do that thing in the back? Was that a charm?”

“Lavender showed me,” Ginny says, and starts describing the spell.

Hermione only half listens as she glances at the head table, where Severus is talking to Septima Vector and not looking in her direction, then back at Ginny, who has stopped talking and is giving Hermione that look she gives her brothers when she’s trying to figure out something they’re not telling her.

“So, that’s how it is,” Ginny murmurs, too low for anyone else to hear. Then Ginny grabs two bacon sandwiches, wraps them in napkins, and hands one to Hermione. She stands and says with a mischievous grin, “Come on. You and I are going for a walk.”


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge and heartfelt thank you to everyone who is reading, and especially to those who have left kudos and/or commented. Reading your comments cheers me immensely. I was better about responding to them before this week, which has been kind of a rough one. Can I please have a potion that will let me go back and _make Covid never fucking happen_?????? Seriously. The fallout from this situation in all our lives has been pretty bad. A flare-up of some of that fallout was why I was so late posting on Tuesday. I think I’d rather face the Dark Lord than a repeat of the drama in my house the other day. Merlin’s hairy ballsack! Anyway, just wanted to say thanks to you all, and apologies for my recent lack of replies.

Their walk takes them up the charmed staircases to the Room of Requirement, which provides a cozy sitting room with a comfortable sofa. Ginny curls up at one end and unwraps her breakfast sandwich. “Okay, spill,” she says, then takes a bite.

Hermione sits at the other end of the sofa. “What makes you think there’s anything to spill?”

Ginny rolls her eyes and finishes chewing. She swallows, then says, “First, because you haven’t paid the slightest attention to my brother in weeks, after spending the whole first part of the school year mooning over him.”

“I was not mooning,” Hermione protests, though in truth she supposes that perhaps she was. She isn’t sure when her crush on Ron ended. The day they announced the marriage law—her wedding day—she was still jealous that he was with Lavender, and saddened at the knowledge that he didn’t care enough about her to be the one to marry her. Before the law, she wasn’t so in love with him that she knew she wanted to marry him, but she did want to be his girlfriend, and thought maybe someday they might marry. 

“Well, whatever you want to call it,” Ginny says, “you’re not doing it anymore.”

Hermione shrugs. “At some point, an intelligent witch has to bow to the inevitable.”

“I’m an intelligent witch, and yet I’m still mooning over Harry.”

“Then why are you with Dean? Ginny, if you still care about Harry—”

“Because he doesn’t care about me. And it’s just about killing me.”

“He does care about you.”

Ginny scoffs.

“He does. He thinks he’s protecting you, that it would put you in danger to be with you, because of the Dark Lord.”

“Merlin, Mione, since when do you call him that? You sound like a bloody Death Eater.”

“There’s a reason,” Hermione says, “But we were talking about you. Are you only with Dean to make Harry jealous, then? That isn’t exactly fair to Dean.”

Ginny sighs. “I know. Honestly? I _want_ to feel about Dean the way I do about Harry. I really do. Which is why I’ve kept trying. It’s demoralizing to feel this way about Harry and have him keep rejecting me.”

Hermione thinks about all the hours she spent trying not to look anywhere but at Ron and Lavender. “Tell me about it.”

“So, how did you stop feeling that way about my brother?”

“I’m not sure, really. It just sort of happened. In first weeks after…after the marriage law, I pushed Ron out of my thoughts as much as possible using Occlumency techniques. At some point, though, I didn’t have to try anymore. I just didn’t think about him anymore, except the same way I think about Harry or you or any of my friends. I don’t know when that happened, or why, but it did.”

“Judging by the way you were looking at Snape this morning, I’d say the _why_ has to do with him.” Ginny keeps looking at Hermione, who doesn’t answer, then asks, “Are the two of you doing more than just studying for your NEWTs? Or do you just want to?”

Hermione hesitates. “We are.”

“I knew it! Is it good? It must be, or you wouldn’t be turning as red as the rubies in the Gryffindor hourglass.”

“It is.”

“Well, fuck me,” Ginny says. “Who knew old Snape would be good in bed? Though actually,” she says, then falls silent, gets a calculating look on her face. “Okay, don’t get me wrong. He’s not my type or anything, but I can see how he might be…meticulous, if you know what I mean?”

Hermione gives Ginny a sidelong look. “ _So_ meticulous.”

Ginny squeals.

“Look, Gin, you absolutely _cannot_ gossip about this, all right? He’s such a private person. He’d be horrified.”

“No man minds having people know he’s good in the sack,” Ginny scoffs.

“I think Severus would mind having his _students_ know.”

“Severus,” Ginny repeats, then pants and gasps in mock ecstasy, “Oh, Severus!”

“Oh, my God, Ginny, shut it!”

Ginny laughs in delight. “Can you please relax? Are you even _capable_ of not being constantly uptight? Wait, never mind. Obviously, _Severus_ must be able to get you to relax, or you wouldn’t be enjoying things so much.”

Hermione laughs. It feels so good to laugh, after the stress she’s been under. “I think I needed this, Ginny.”

“Of course you did. Witches need to confide in their girlfriends. We’d explode if we didn’t. I suppose even that cow Umbridge must have a girlfriend she tells about her disgusting crush.”

Hermione grimaces. “God. Umbridge having sex. I’d rather not think about that. Can we just assume she’s asexual?”

“Unfortunately not. My dad saw her doodling some Death Eater’s name surrounded by hearts and snakes—snakes!—during a meeting at the Ministry one day. He and Mum laughed themselves sick.”

“Which Death Eater?”

“Why? And why do you have that look on your face?”

“What look?”

“The same look I’ve been seeing on Fred and George’s face all my life, and have learned to watch my back whenever I do.”

“Probably best you don’t know. Just tell me whose name dear Dolores was decorating with hearts and snakes.”

* * *

“Could you get some of Yaxley’s hair?” 

Severus puts down his book. Hermione is practically vibrating with excitement, and the door to their quarters had barely closed behind her when that very unexpected question tumbled out of her mouth. “Why?” he asks.

“Answer me and I’ll tell you.”

Severus glowers at her, but it has no effect at all, which is vexing. “I can.” 

“Dolores Umbridge has a big fat crush on him.”

Severus grimaces. The thought of Dolores Umbridge in any sort of sexual or romantic context is enough to turn his stomach. His next thought ramps up the nausea. “Surely you are not suggesting that I impersonate Yaxley and…and…” He cannot bring himself to give words to the thought, which is bad enough.

“You wouldn’t have to do anything with her,” Hermione says with a shudder. “God. I don’t think I could ever let you touch me again if you did. You’d only have to get into her flat so you could take the locket.”

Severus ponders this. He and Hermione and Lucius have discussed how to get to Umbridge, which has proved more challenging than anticipated. She Floos to and from the Ministry from her flat. She eats lunch in the Ministry canteen or at her desk, almost never goes out. She appears to have no social life whatsoever outside work.

“Well,” he says, unwarding a cabinet and removing a vial containing several brown hairs. “No time like the present, I suppose.”

Hermione gapes. “Is that…?”

“It is,” he confirms a little smugly. In fact, he has hair from most of the other Death Eaters carefully stored away and labelled, along with some from an assortment of anonymous Muggles. “One never knows when such things may come in handy.”


	34. Chapter 34

Severus hands the witch at the Ministry front desk his wand. Well, not _his_ wand, but _a_ wand.

She hands it back. “Here you are, Mr. Mullins.”

“Thank you,” he replies in the voice of Martin Mullins, a potioneer who died years earlier, unbeknownst to the Ministry, since Severus took possession of his wand and disposed of the body. A reclusive wizard who detested Tom Riddle since they were in school together, Mullins took a liking to Severus when they met at the Potions conference Severus attended after attaining his mastery, and the last Mullins attended before retiring to the Orkneys. The two maintained a correspondence, with Severus visiting occasionally, until Mullins died, bequeathing Severus his wand and a prodigious quantity of hair, cut and collected over the preceding years.

He walks to the directory, more slowly than usual on Mullins’s shorter legs. He locates Umbridge’s office, then walks to the nearest toilet. He goes into a stall and locks it, waiting for the Polyjuice to wear off. When the potion wears off and he is himself again, long limbs protruding from the smaller man’s robes, he pulls a vial from his pocket and drinks. His face and body rearrange themselves again, now taking the appearance of Corban Yaxley. He Transfigures his robes to the style Yaxley favors, and leaves the stall. In the mirror, his fellow Death Eater’s face looks back at him before he turns and walks out into the corridor.

“Corban!”

Fuck, fuck, and fuckity fuck. Of _course_ he’d run into Macnair first thing. “Walden.”

“Weren’t you wearing different robes when I saw you just a few minutes ago?”

Severus freezes, but before he decides how to respond, someone calls to Macnair from farther down the corridor, and Macnair rolls his eyes as if to say, _Can’t these arseholes leave me alone for five minutes?_ and heads down the corridor toward the other wizard.

Severus walks quickly towards the lift, which fortunately is occupied only by two witches deep in conversation and uninterested in him. He gets off on Umbridge’s floor and finds the office with her name on the outside. He knocks.

“Come in,” Umbridge’s too-high voice calls through the door. Severus opens it, steps inside, and closes it behind him. Behind the desk, Umbridge—in one of her numberless pink suits, this one with a froth of white lace at the collar—beams at him. “Corban, what a lovely surprise!” Then she giggles, as though she’s a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl rather than a middle-aged bureaucrat.

“Hello, Dolores.” When he sees that she isn’t wearing the locket, his heart sinks. He’d hoped he could just snatch it, Obliviate her, and then lurk somewhere until the Polyjuice wore off and he could become the late Martin Mullins and check out of the building, but no such luck. He forces himself to smile and say, “I wondered if you might like to have dinner with me this evening?”

Umbridge giggles again. “I would love to, Corban.”

“I shall pick you up at seven, if you’ll give me the Floo address?”

“Oh, Corban, you know a lady can’t let a gentleman inside her flat before the first date. Shame on you, you naughty man! I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”

Severus bites back a growl. As though he’d want to be anywhere near the inside of her flat if not for that bloody locket. “Dolores, I promise I shall be a perfect gentleman.” All the gold in Gringott’s couldn’t persuade him to be otherwise with this toad. “But the restaurant I’d like to take you to can only be reached by Apparition, and as you have never been there, I will have to take you side-along.”

‘How do you know I’ve never been there? What’s the name of it?”

For fuck’s sake. Could this bint make something as simple as a dinner date any more complicated? “I’d rather it be a surprise, if you don’t mind, Dolores.”

She looks at him as though trying to make up her mind, and then bats her lashes and says, “Oh, very well. You are a _very_ persuasive man, Corban.” 

He may be ill. But he schools his features and waits as she writes her Floo address on a scrap of parchment and hands it to him. “The restaurant is very elegant,” he says as he takes the parchment, trying unsuccessfully to avoid touching her hand. “That lovely gold locket I saw you wearing once would be the perfect piece to wear there.”

* * *

When Severus arrives in Umbridge’s flat, his eyes are assaulted by more pink than he has ever seen in one place, and that includes the Great Hall when Albus has it decorated for Valentine’s Day. At least Albus throws in a bit of red and white to mix things up a bit. Far worse than the decor, however, is the fact that the infernal woman is not wearing the locket.

The idea of going through some elaborate deception to persuade her to get it is, quite frankly, beyond him at this point. He is absolutely, positively _done_ playing nice with Dolores Umbridge. “Imperius,” he says, and her eyes get that slightly glassy look that a ham-fisted Imperius produces. When he’s being careful about it, Severus can Imperius a person without any telltale signs, but now, when there’s no one to see Umbridge, so he doesn’t bother being careful. “Go get the locket,” he orders, and she walks out of the room, returning a moment later holding it in her hand. He takes it from her, and immediately feels the same sense of oppressive pessimism he felt when he first touched the diadem.

When he ends the spell, Umbridge’s eyes fill with tears. “Oh, Corban, how _could_ you?” Her lip trembles and the tears spill over. “I thought you liked me, but you don’t. You were only after my locket.”

For a moment, Severus almost— _almost_ —feels sorry for her, then reminds himself about the Blood Quill and the bullying and all the rest. Though really, does someone become horrid because they’re disliked and thus unhappy, or are they disliked and unhappy because they’re horrid? As she looks at him with tears running down her toad-like face, he raises his wand and says, “Obliviate.”

* * *

Lucius looks at the blackened remains of the locket lying on Severus’s desk. “I assume you Obliviated her afterward?”

“If only someone could have Obliviated me as well,” Severus says. Lucius chuckles, assuming it’s simply a joke at Umbridge’s expense. If he didn’t tell Hermione about his momentary flash of sympathy for the toad, he certainly isn’t going to tell Lucius. “Now the cup and the snake.”

“We shouldn’t retrieve the cup until we’ve figured out how to get to Nagini,” Lucius says. “The Dark Lord will go spare when he finds out Bella is dead.”

“What about Imperius?” Hermione suggests.

“Imperius?” Severus repeats.

“Yes. Couldn’t you Imperius someone to kill the snake? We’d have to take the potion when you try it, to see if it works, but you said it was your best Unforgivable. It might work.”

“I am _much_ better at the Imperius curse than Severus is,” Lucius says.

“Well, excuse me for not knowing all about your prodigious talents with the Unforgivables, Mr. Malfoy,” Hemione says tartly.

“My dear, when are you going to start calling me Lucius? You’re my best friend’s wife. Such formality really isn’t called for.”

“And when are you going to stop calling me _my dear_? Your excessive familiarity is unwelcome and, quite frankly, a little creepy.”

“Creepy?” Lucius gasps. He looks at Severus, who gives him a _leave me out of this_ look. He turns back to Hermione. “Miss Granger, or Mrs. Snape, or whatever it is I’m to call you—”

“I’d prefer you didn’t call me at all.”

“I allowed myself to be tortured and killed so that your husband could make his escape after invading the Dark Lord’s mind. I may not remember it, but it happened, as surely as what happened to you on the first of those five repeated nights happened. I wonder, Mrs. Snape, how long it took me to die? Did he use the Cruciatus, or a cursed whip, or both, before he finished me off? Perhaps he let each of my enemies—and believe me, madam, I have a great many of those amongst the Death Eaters, who are a nasty, envious, and vindictive lot—have a go at me? Once the torture was finished, did he do me the kindness of a simple Avada, or did he let Bellatrix perform her favorite spell, the Entrail-expelling curse? Or perhaps I suffered a similar fate to yours on the first iteration of that evening? I’ve seen more than a few wizards raped as the Dark Lord looked on.”

Severus looks back and forth between his friend and his wife. Lucius did not raise his voice, but Severus has known the man long enough to recognize the tightness around his mouth, and the flat stare that has replaced the glint of humor in his friend’s gray eyes. Hermione has gone pale, and when she draws in a breath, it is shaky.

When she speaks, however, her voice is steady. “Then why offer to be the one to cast the Imperius, knowing that you’ll be the one tortured—again—if he knows you’ve done it?”

Lucius hesitates. “Atonement.”

“We both have much to atone for,” Severus points out.

“You’ve been atoning since 1981. Besides, I’m the one who got you mixed up in all this in the first place. I think I owe you.”

Hermione looks at Lucius for a long moment, then asks, “Who would be the best person to Imperius?”

“Someone who would be easily Imperiused, because then it could have been done by almost anyone, not only by someone particularly adept at it.”

“Goyle,” Severus suggests.

“Perfect.”

“How would he kill the snake?” Hermione asks. “Does it have to be a basilisk fang or the sword of Gryffindor as with an inanimate Horcrux, or would a simple Avada do?”

“I doubt the Avada would be sufficient,” Lucius says. “Fiendfyre? I don’t see how we’d get one of the other weapons into Goyle’s hands without detection.”

“Fiendfyre is too hard to control,” Severus says. “I don’t think Goyle could manage it.”

“But if he’s Imperiused, I’d be the one managing it.”

“Have you ever tried to control Fiendfyre through an Imperiused person?”

Lucius frowns. “You’re right. And since this will be happening in my house, I’d just as soon avoid burning the whole thing to the ground.”

“We’ve got time to figure it out,” Severus says, “since we can’t kill Nagini until she’s the last Horcrux. If he knows his Horcruxes are being destroyed, he may try to make another one.”

“Until Nagini is the last Horcrux besides Harry, or including him?” Hermione asks.

“I need to use the potion again to find out exactly what Albus knows about the Horcrux inside Potter.”

“Well, don’t use it today,” Lucius says. “I don’t want to have to be told about this entire conversation again after I’ve forgotten it.”

“I’d just as soon you did forget it,” Hermione says.

“And why is that, pray tell, Mrs. Snape?”

She hesitates, the says, “Hermione, or, if you absolutely must, my dear.”


	35. Chapter 35

The following evening, Severus and Hermione visit the Headmaster. Since Albus will remember nothing of the conversation the next day, Severus allowed himself to be persuaded to try Hermione’s absurdly Gryffindor approach, though he still has misgivings.

“We know Potter’s a Horcrux,” he says, and watches with grim satisfaction as the old man pales in astonishment.

“We know about the other Horcruxes, too,” Hermione continues. “We’ve identified and located all of them, and destroyed all but two of them.”

“All but three, including Potter,” Severus adds.

Dumbledore looks back and forth between the two of them, until his eyes settle on Hermione.

She averts her gaze. “None of _that_ , if you please, Headmaster. Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s very bad manners to go poking about in people’s minds without their permission?”

“Does Potter have to die for the Dark Lord to die?” Severus asks.

The Headmaster heaves a sigh. “The magic involved is complicated.”

“You make things more complicated than they have to be,” Hermione says. “All this chasing around after Horcruxes with Harry, who never even heard of a Horcrux before you told him about them, and has never so much as opened a book that discusses them. Of course it seems complicated to you, doing things your way. If you’d shared what you knew with Severus and me from the beginning, the Dark Lord would probably be dead already.”

Albus turns to Severus. “I really need you to trust me, my boy. If you’ll just tell me what the other Horcruxes are—”

“Legilimens,” Severus says, and then he’s in Albus’s mind. The old man is so stunned, that initially he doesn’t shield anything, and in that moment, Severus finds what he’s looking for, right there in the forefront of Albus’s mind. It’s not surprising it’s there, since they’ve just been talking about Potter and the Horcruxes. He feels relief wash through him as he realizes that Potter only has to believe he has to die, that if he sacrifices himself willingly, he’ll appear to die along with the Dark Lord, but he’ll survive. Severus is about to withdraw from Albus’s mind when he feels the flash of the Headmaster’s relief, and so he stays. What is the old man relieved about? What was he afraid Severus might find, but obviously did not?

He chases the feeling, which slips away from him, sucked into a vortex of emotions and memories that swirl like a cyclone in the Headmaster’s mind. The old man is by far the best Occlumens Severus has ever faced, and for a moment he feels as though he’s drowning in the swirling sea of memories. He focuses on the emotions. There are so many, it’s difficult to untangle them, but finally there it is, a flicker of panic, fear that Severus will find what he’s intent on hiding.

Severus dives into the vortex, following the glimmer of anxiety, and catches a glimpse of Albus’s wand. His wand? Then Grindelwald, and the Dark Lord, and _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. What does a children’s book have to do with any of this? Then he sees himself casting the killing curse on Albus, disarming him and taking Albus’s wand. This isn’t an actual memory, of course, but something Albus has been thinking about. Next, Severus sees himself dueling Potter, likewise in Albus’s imagination rather than in his memory. The Headmaster imagines Potter disarming Severus—as though _that_ would ever happen—and taking the wand.

And then Severus is staggering against the door, hurled out of the old man’s mind with a violence that leaves him reeling. Across the room, Albus raises his wand, but Severus yanks open the door and pulls Hermione out with him before the furious Headmaster can cast the Obliviate.

“Severus?” Hermione gasps, but he’s taking the stairs two at a time, pulling her after him, and doesn’t answer. She stumbles and he sets her back on her feet as the door opens above them. Severus pulls her with him down the corridor, narrowly avoiding the Stunner from Albus’s wand. Instead of heading for the dungeons, Severus opens the nearest door with an Alohomora, slams and wards it behind them, and opens the window with his wand. Pulling Hermione up onto the sill beside him, he leaps into the darkness outside with her in his arms.

Hermione shrieks as they fly into the darkness, and clings to him with such force that he thinks he may have bruises tomorrow. He forgot how frightened she was when he flew with her the night he took her before the Dark Lord, but it can’t be helped. They hurtle toward the gates as quickly as the spell can carry them, despite her trembling. Not until they are outside the castle wards does he stop, and only then to catch his breath before Apparating both of them to an alley in Muggle Manchester. 

He looks at Hermione, who is practically hyperventilating. “Just a few more minutes,” he says, and transfigures his robes into a black Muggle suit. Hermione’s already dressed in Muggle clothing. “We’ll be safe soon.” He takes her hand and strides quickly out of the alley and onto a busy street. He hails a taxi, which pulls up to the curb beside them. “Do you know a decent hotel nearby?” he asks the driver.

“There’s a Hilton not far off.”

“That’ll do.”

Hermione is quiet on the drive to the hotel. Her eyes widen as he removes his wallet and pulls Muggle notes out of it to pay the fare. Inside the hotel, she watches him hand the clerk more pound notes in exchange for a room key. She doesn’t speak as they ride the lift to the sixth floor and walk down the corridor to their room. Inside, she watches as Severus casts a very nasty set of wards on the door and window, then layers a series of Notice Me Not charms on top of the wards. When he’s finished, he loosens his tie and sits down on the edge of the bed. 

“Do you think he’ll be able to find us?” she asks.

“I doubt it. You know Pureblood wizards. Out here in the Muggle world, most of them can’t find their own arses with a map and both hands. Besides, in a few hours, the potion will reset time, and he won’t remember any of this when he wakes in the morning.”

“Which is why you wanted to talk to him late in the evening. Less time for fallout if things went wrong.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you always carry Muggle currency?”

“No, but I had an idea things might go awry with Albus and we’d have to get out of the castle.”

“What did you see in his mind?”

“It’s something to do with his wand.”

“Whose? The Dark Lord’s?”

“Albus’s. I’ll show you what I saw, so we can figure out together how to make sense of it. But first, are you all right?”

“Yes.”

He cups her cheek. “Are you sure?”

She nods, but the tears that well in her eyes belie her words. They spill over and she leans into his touch. He puts his arms around her and then the floodgates open, trembling as well as tears, as the stress of the evening catches up with her. 

“It’s all right,” he says, stroking her back.

“It isn’t. Bad enough having to fight the Dark Lord, but Dumbledore is supposed to be on our side.” She cries harder, and he holds her as she shakes and sobs. 

“You’re all right, love,” he says, stroking her hair. “I’ve got you.” He kisses her temple and lets her cry, murmuring that everything will be all right, that in the morning they’ll be back home and it will be as though none of this ever happened. 


	36. Chapter 36

Hermione wakes not in the hotel bed in Manchester, but in their bed in their own quarters, as she did the day before. As then, she’s naked, Severus spooned up behind her, his arm lying across her waist.

Their bed. That’s how she’s come to think of it, she realizes. It’s been only a couple of weeks since she stopped sleeping in her room, but already she’s thinking of this as _their_ room, _their_ bed. Would Severus mind that she does? He doesn’t seem to mind her sleeping here every night. On the contrary, he seems happy to have her here.

And last night—or rather, the night of the first today—he called her love. She wonders whether he even remembers, whether it registered, amidst all the stress and adrenaline. He said it without thinking, reassuring her in that Manchester hotel. She was mortified, tried to stop crying, but after that terrifying broomless flight across the castle grounds and the rest of it, she was on her last nerve. 

There, in a room warded like it was Azkaban, he continued holding her and murmuring comforting platitudes under the crisp hotel sheets, stroking her hair and occasionally kissing her forehead until she finally fell into an exhausted sleep.

Now, she feels him stir, and his arm tightens around her. She presses back against him, feeling his morning erection. She turns in his arms to face him, and he brushes a lock of hair from her face.

“Better this morning?” he asks.

She nods. “I’m sorry I was such a ninny.”

“You weren’t. It was a stressful evening.”

She lifts her hand to the side of his face, feeling the rough stubble along his jaw, then moves her hand to the back of his head, pulling him toward her. Her lips part as his mouth covers hers, and they kiss, slow and languorous. One of his legs slips between hers and his arms move around her waist, slide down to cup her arse and pull her against him.

It _is_ all right, now that they’re here, back home. He’s got her, and she’s all right. He won’t let anything happen to her. The rational part of her brain knows they’re both in a great deal of danger still. Knows that Harry is a Horcrux and the Dark Lord is immortal, and the Headmaster is in some ways perhaps as big a megalomaniac as the Dark Lord. She knows Severus is only a man, and he may not be able to protect her. He may be killed himself. But she feels safe here in his arms, and wants to shut out that voice of reason and let herself bask in the warmth of his protection. 

In like manner, she refuses to think about what will happen if they do succeed in killing the Dark Lord, when they will be not only safe but free. Only now, free feels the opposite of safe. The day they entered into this marriage for the sake of her safety, Severus said that he never expected to survive this war, and when he was dead she could have her pick of the unmarried Weasley brothers. At the time, marrying Ron Weasley seemed an ideal future. Now, she no longer wants Ron or any other hypothetical husband of her choice. She wants the husband she has, can’t remember what it’s like to want anyone but him. As she feels the rasp of his stubble against the sensitive skin of her thigh she lets out a strangled cry of longing—for him to touch her the way he is now, yes, but also for him to survive this war, and to want her the way she wants him.

Later, sprawled wantonly across him as their sweat-slicked bodies cool in the dungeon air, she wonders, does this mean she loves him? Is that what love is, this feeling of wanting him, only him, to kiss her and touch her and fuck her till she screams, the way he just did, but also to hold her when she’s afraid, to put his arms around her and tell her, _you’re all right, love, I’ve got you_ , to plot with her against their shared enemies, and to laugh with her in those rare moments of respite from the life-or-death struggle in which they’re engaged?

Then again, isn’t that struggle what’s causing these feelings? Without a Dark Lord to fight, there would be no fear and thus no need for comfort, no danger and thus no adrenaline. Certainly, there would be no marriage. Without the Dark Lord, she would be sitting in the Potions classroom while Severus—whom she would still think of as Professor Snape—sneered at her and took House points while she mooned over Ron Weasley and envied Lavender Brown.

It doesn’t matter, she supposes. One or both of them may die. Or, if they both live, Severus may wish her well and move on with his life, which doesn’t include a witch forced on him by Albus Dumbledore. If he does, she will accept it with good grace, and not make a fool of herself.

* * *

Severus wakes when a piece of parchment flutters onto his bare shoulder. He opens his eyes, disorientated after falling back asleep after morning sex.

“You need to show me what you saw in the Headmaster’s mind,” Hermione says. She’s sitting up in bed beside him, dressed in an oversized t-shirt, ink-stained fingers flying across the pages of a notebook. “Also, we need to do more research on the Horcrux that’s in Harry. Lucius needs to bring everything in his library that has to do with Soul Magic.”

“He already brought all the books on Horcruxes.”

“But there’s other Soul Magic besides Horcruxes, and something in one of those books might help us figure out if the Horcrux can be removed from Harry.”

Severus sits up and leans against the headboard. “Why? We know now that Potter doesn’t have to die.”

She looks at him the way she does Potter or Weasley or Longbottom when they say something stupid. “As long as it’s in him, there has to be a confrontation between the two. It might end up being a full-blown battle. God knows how many people could be killed. And we have to time everything just so, getting the cup from Gringott’s and killing the snake and orchestrating the confrontation with Harry, et cetera, et cetera. There are too many moving parts, too many things that could go wrong. If we could get the Horcrux out of Harry, the rest of it could be done easy peasy.”

“Well, perhaps not exactly _easy peasy_ , since we are talking about killing a Dark Lord,” Severus says, but in truth there’s something to her line of reasoning. It _would_ be a lot easier to orchestrate everything without some big dog and pony show between the Dark Lord and Potter.

“Floo Lucius.”

“Would you mind if I have a cup of coffee before you start barking orders at me?”

She grins, puts the quill and notebook on the nightstand, and thows a leg over him so she’s straddling his thighs. “Pretty please?” She kisses him. “Is that better?”

“In case you’re hard of hearing, I said coffee, not sex.”

“You’re hateful!” she laughs and starts to move off him, but he grabs her hips and holds her where she is. 

“No, you don’t,” he says, sliding his hand under her shirt to caress her breast. “You start something, you need to finish it.”

“I thought you wanted coffee?”

He withdraws his hand. “If you promise you won’t be insulted, I do, actually.”

She climbs off. “I’m not insulted. The sooner you have your coffee, the sooner I get my hands on Lucius’s books.”

“I think perhaps _I_ should be insulted.”

* * *

“Extraordinary,” Lucius says, looking at Hermione amid a sea of open books and scribbled notes, one quill in her hand and another stuck in her hair.

“She’s like a research machine,” Severus agrees.

“What is extraordinary is how she looks exactly like _you_ used to when we were in school and you’d go into one of your Potions-development trances.”

“I can hear you, actually,” Hermione says, though her hand doesn’t stop moving across the page.

“Have you come up with anything?” Lucius asks.

She doesn’t look up. “I might if you’d stop talking for five minutes at a stretch.”

“As I said. _Exactly_ like you were,” Lucius says, then ducks as Hermione wandlessly sends a balled up piece of parchment flying at him. “Well, my dear, between you and the noseless madman, it’s a close call, but I believe I’ll head back to the Manor and take my chances with the Dark Lord.”

When he’s gone, Hermione holds out a book to Severus. “Here.” 

“You’re not going to make color-coded study schedules for me, I hope?” he asks, taking it from her.

She narrows her eyes. “Only if I have to.”

He opens the book and starts reading.


	37. Chapter 37

Why didn’t he take an apprentice years ago? Albus wasn’t happy that Severus didn’t clear it with him before making the offer, but after nagging Severus for years to take an apprentice, the old man really couldn’t complain. Even though he’s teaching Defence rather than Potions, Severus still brews the potions Poppy needs for the hospital wing because Slughorn whinged so much that Albus lets him off. Now Levin is doing it, as well as doing the marking for the first and second year Defence essays. Even though it isn’t Potions, giving feedback to students is a skill Levin will need next year when Severus goes back to teaching Potions—assuming the Dark Lord is dead, and Severus isn’t. 

Severus would never admit this to another person, but there are aspects of teaching Potions he actually likes, including the NEWT-level work with the occasional talented student who slips in amid the other dunderdeads—students like Levin, or Hermione, or a couple of the current seventh year Ravenclaws.

At present, his apprentice is proctoring an exam the third years are taking while Severus is at his desk reading _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_. He vaguely recalls some of the stories, as his mum read them to him when he was a child, but it’s been years since he’s thought about the book. He finishes the preposterous story about the troll—he recalls particularly liking that one as a boy but now can’t for the life of him figure out why—and begins the next one, about the Peverell brothers and the Deathly Hallows.

He turns the page and looks at the illustration. There’s something familiar about the drawing of the Resurrection Stone, but whatever it is floats just outside his consciousness, and he continues reading. Occasionally looking up at his apprentice and the students, he finishes the story and sits back, thinking. 

When he saw the book in Albus’s mind, the old man was thinking about his wand, which he pictured Severus taking from him after using the killing curse. Then Severus was dueling Potter. Was he using his own wand in that duel, or the late Headmaster’s? Severus concentrates on the memory. He’s almost sure it was Albus’s wand in his hand, the one he took from Albus when he killed him. Is that important?

He goes back to the beginning of the story, and turns the pages slowly, looking at each illustration. The picture of the stone still niggles at him, but the drawing of the wand stops him cold. It’s Albus’s wand. Not similar, but identical. He’s seen that wand so many times over the years, he’d know it anywhere. The wand Albus imagined Severus taking from him by killing him—taken by force, as the Elder Wand must be taken, according to the story, in order for a new owner to gain mastery of it.

This is just a story. The Deathly Hallows aren’t real. Though that Invisibility Cloak of Potter’s is real, and the only one in existence, as far as he knows. He looks at the drawing of the Resurrection Stone again, and then he knows. The ring, the one that contained the Horcrux and whose curse is slowly killing Albus. The stone in that ring is identical to the one in the illustration.

The Deathly Hallows _are_ real, and the Elder Wand plays a part in Albus’s complicated plotting to bring down the Dark Lord. Does he think the wand will allow Potter to destroy the Dark Lord even without destroying the Horcrux inside Potter first? And does he old fool really think that Potter could defeat Severus, to gain mastery of it, assuming that Severus became its master by killing Albus? It’s preposterous. The boy could no more outduel Severus than could one of these second years.

There are so many moving parts to the Headmaster’s plan. It’s exactly as Hermione said: the old man is making things much more complicated than they have to be. 

* * *

“You have _got_ to be kidding me,” Hermione says.

Severus sighs. “If only I were.”

“He’s mad. You know that, right? Absolutely barking.” She stands and begins to pace. “You’re supposed to kill him and gain mastery of the wand—except, in the first place, he told you to do it, so it doesn’t really count as defeating him, does it, so would the wand actually recognize you? And in the second place, even if it did, why would you take it? You’ve already got a wand. Or would you? I don’t know. I suppose it’s not a bad idea to have a spare on hand. But even if you did, you wouldn’t start using it instead of yours, so even if Harry were fool enough to duel you—which he isn’t, despite what you think, and stop smirking—and did manage to disarm you—stop laughing, Severus—you’d be using your own wand, not the one you took from Albus.” She stops for a breath. “As I said. Barking.”

“Mm.”

She leaves off pacing and puts her hands on her hips. “Is that all you have to say? ‘Mm’?”

“You’re saying enough for both of us and then some, I’d say.” He can’t resist winding her up a bit when she gets like this.

She looks at her familiar. “He thinks he’s _so_ funny, but he isn’t, is he, Crooks?”

The beast walks over to Severus, butts its face against his leg, then leaps up into his lap and starts purring. 

She laughs. “I hate you both.” 

“No, you—” Severus stops short, then finishes, “You’re very fond of this hideous animal, though I cannot begin to understand why.” He almost said, _No, you love us_ , until, thank Merlin, his brain caught up with his mouth. She most certainly does _not_ love him, any more than he loves her. The very idea.

Hermione sits down on the sofa next to Severus. “I’m _somewhat_ fond of you as well, when you’re not acting like an ass.”

He scratches the Kneazle behind the ears. “You hear that, mate? Conditional affection. She’s a cold one, your mistress.”

Hermione pets Crookshanks, her fingers brushing Severus’s skin as well as the animal’s fur. “What are we going to do about the Headmaster’s clusterfuck of a plan?”

“Such a dirty mouth.” His fingers tease hers in the ginger fur.

“You like it.” She shoos the cat off his lap and takes its place. 

“I do.” He trails open-mouth kisses down her neck, murmuring, “Are you going to talk dirty to me now, Miss Granger?” He freezes for a moment, wishing he hadn’t called her that, but she appears not to have noticed, or if she did, not to have associated it with the way he used to address her when she was his student. Is he ever going to get over his skittishness about that?

He is denied the pleasure of hearing whatever her wicked grin suggests she is about to say when the Floo flares green. He pushes her off his lap, eliciting an affronted, “Hey!” before she follows his gaze to the hearth, where Minerva’s face appears.

“Severus, come at once to the hospital wing. Draco Malfoy’s badly injured.”


	38. Chapter 38

Severus sits next to Draco’s hospital bed watching the boy sleep. Poppy wanted to keep him overnight, and Severus agreed, even though it wasn’t strictly necessary. At this point, all Draco needs is rest while the blood replenishers do their work. But sending him back to his dormitory would have only bolstered Albus’s and Minerva’s case that this was just schoolboy misbehavior and not attempted murder.

Fucking Potter. He could have killed Draco with that spell. What’s wrong with that boy, using a spell like Sectumsempra against another student? Draco would be dead if Severus hadn’t arrived in time to cast the countercurse. Like his father and godfather, apparently Potter holds the lives of his fellow students cheaply if they’ve had the bad luck to be Sorted into a rival House.

Albus, too, continues to value the lives of his Slytherin students less than the well-being of his pet Gryffindors. Potter won’t be expelled—never mind turned over to the Aurors—for attempted murder any more than Sirius Black was when he lured Severus into the presence of a transformed werewolf. 

Poppy returns and casts another diagnostic spell, which shows Draco’s readings close to normal. “You don’t have to sit here all night, Severus,” she says. Draco’s eyes open, and Severus shoots her a reproving glance, which she ignores, turning to Draco. “How are you feeling, young man?”

Draco sits up. “Thirsty.”

Poppy hands him the cup of water on his bedside table. After he drains it, she refills it with an Aguamenti, and he drinks more. “Try to sleep, Mr. Malfoy,” she says, then returns to her office.

Draco remains sitting up but doesn’t look at Severus. “She’s right. You don’t need to sit here all night with me,” he says to the bed behind and to the left of his godfather.

“Don’t be sullen with me, boy. I just saved your life.”

“Who asked you to?”

“Draco, I know—”

“You know,” the boy cuts in with a sneer, turning to face Severus. “You know fuck all about anything.”

Severus looks at his godson, keeping his expression neutral. He glances at Poppy’s office and casts Muffliato. “All right, then. Tell me. What, exactly, do I know fuck all about? If it’s about what it’s like to be Marked while still in your teens, I do know about that, unfortunately. Granted, I was eighteen and made the choice freely. You’re only sixteen, and shouldn’t have been forced into it the way you were.”

Draco doesn’t answer.

“If it’s about having the girl you care about marry someone else, I know about that, too.”

“I don’t care about her. She’s a filthy Mudblood.” When Severus remains silent, he continues, “Aunt Bella says you’re Dumbledore’s spy, that you’re working to defeat the Dark Lord. She says you’re not trying to turn Granger against Potter, that you married her just because you wanted to fuck her, were probably already fucking her even before the marriage law. That’s how she got top grades in Potions, by—”

“Draco!” he says sharply. “I had no personal relationship with her before we were married. And you know perfectly well that she had top marks in all of her classes, not just mine, so unless you believe she had an inappropriate relationship with every professor at this school, your accusation is absurd.” He sits forward in his chair and leans closer to Draco. “I’m sorry I hurt you when I married her. I wouldn’t have done it if I’d had any other choice.”

“So, you wish you weren’t married to her? You hate her?”

“How I feel about her is immaterial.”

Draco studies him. “What happens after the war? With you and Granger?”

“I have no idea.” And he doesn’t. But the pensive—one could even say calculating—expression on his godson’s face makes him want to tell the spoiled little brat that Hermione is _his wife_ , and Draco had best not get any ideas about a postwar world in which she isn’t. Instead, he says, “Draco, we’re all pawns in this war. You, me, Hermione, your parents, that idiot Potter, all of us. It’s as though the Dark Lord and the Headmaster are playing an elaborate game of wizard’s chess with all of us as the animate pieces. Black or white, Death Eater or Order, we’re all being moved about by other people for their purposes, with no thought to our own.”

“What color chess piece are you, Uncle?”

“A spy avoids being thrown bleeding from the chessboard only by keeping his true colors obscured by at least a shadow of a doubt.”

“Even to your godson?”

“To everyone.”

“Including your wife?”

Severus doesn’t answer. Apart from Albus, Hermione is the only person who knows his true loyalties beyond a shadow of a doubt. Actually, he isn’t even sure that Albus is completely convinced. If he were, he’d have told Severus about the Horcruxes, enlisted his help in finding and destroying them. But he didn’t. He chose to rely instead on a sixteen-year-old boy who can’t keep the goddamn Dark Lord out of his head.

Draco drags a hand through his fair hair. “My father told me I could trust you.”

“You can.”

“He said you’d protect me if I told you everything, that you took an Unbreakable Vow to Mother that you would.”

“I did, and I will, insofar as I am able to.”

“But what if we’re not on the same side? If you’re Dumbledore’s spy, and I’m loyal to the Dark Lord, you’ll still protect me?”

“I will.”

“And if the situation is reversed? If you’re a loyal Death Eater, and I want out?”

“I will still protect you. I took a Vow.”

“But why? How?”

“You can only see part of the chessboard from where you sit, Draco.”

“And you can see the whole thing, I suppose?”

“No, but I can see more of it than you can. And different parts of it. There are things I know that you don’t, and things you know of which I remain ignorant.”

“And if we pooled our knowledge?”

Severus hesitates. “I can’t tell you everything I know. It would be too dangerous for both of us.”

“So, I’m supposed to tell you what I know, but you don’t reciprocate?”

“I will reciprocate to the extent that I am able to. I know Bellatrix has been teaching you Occlumency, but you have not yet mastered it. There are some things you would be better off not knowing, for your own safety.”

“How do you know I haven’t mastered it?”

Severus doesn’t tell him that if Hermione was able to perform Legilimency on Draco without his having the slightest clue, he’s nowhere near mastering it. Instead, he asks, “Shall I test your shields to ascertain whether you have?”

“I don’t want you in my head.”

“The fact that you assume I can get in tells me you haven’t mastered it.”

Draco expels a frustrated breath. “I’m complete shite at it.”

“If so, I’d say that’s because you’ve had a complete shite teacher.”

Draco huffs a half laugh. “Have you ever noticed that the Dark Lord doesn’t look into Bella’s mind the way he does with the rest of us?”

“I have.”

“Do you know why?”

“I always assumed it was a mark of his absolute trust in her, and perhaps of his…affection.”

“It’s because he gets a headache whenever he looks into the crazy bitch’s mind. So do I.”

Severus recalls the headache he got when he performed Legilimency on Bellatrix. But the Dark Lord wouldn’t tell Draco something like that, would he? “How do you know? About the Dark Lord?”

“He told Mother.”

Severus thinks about this. The Dark Lord never looks into Bellatrix’s mind. So, if Bella were dead, the Dark Lord wouldn’t know as long as someone Polyjuiced as her appeared before him, and was able to act as mad as the late Madam Lestrange. The moment he knows Bella is dead, he could order Cissy and Lucius to bring him the Horcrux in Bellatrix’s vault. He might not, might trust them to care for it as he trusted Bellatrix, but what if he didn’t? 

“Moving chess pieces in your head?” Draco asks.

“For all the good it may do, when I still can’t see the rest of the board.”

“Teach me what my crazy aunt can’t, and I’ll show you the parts of the board I can see.”

Severus nods. “We’ll start tomorrow.”


	39. Chapter 39

Hermione closes the book and tears up the parchment she was writing on. Useless. The book is useless, and all the notes she took are useless. With an angry wave of her wand, she sends the useless, pointless notes flying across the room and into the hearth, where she casts a vicious Incendio that turns them immediately to ash. 

This bit of minor violence makes her feel marginally better, but only for a moment. The fact is, there is no way to get a piece of someone’s soul out of a living host. She was sure there would be some ritual or spell or potion. How could there not be? If there’s a way to get the thing in, there must be a way to get it out, right?

Well, there is. But only the one the Headmaster already knows about. Harry has to sacrifice himself, let the Dark Lord kill him—or appear to do so—and then the soul fragment in Harry dies while Harry lives. It seems so unfair that the element of self-sacrifice is necessary, but her reading confirms what Severus saw in the Headmaster’s mind.

They do need the confrontation between Harry and Voldemort, and the destruction of the other two remaining Horcruxes has to be timed just so. Destroying the cup means killing the Lestranges and having the Malfoys retrieve it from Gringott’s, and doing so close enough to the final confrontation that there isn’t time for the Dark Lord to demand it be brought to him. Killing the snake can only be done in Voldemort’s presence, since he never lets the beast out of his sight, according to Lucius Malfoy, hence their tentative plan to Imperius Goyle and have him do it. Whether to do that at the time of the confrontation between Harry and the Dark Lord or sometime before they haven’t worked out.

There are so many moving parts to work out. Hermione’s brain hurts from thinking about it so much. She checks the time. Severus is always back by this time on nights he doesn’t have patrol. When she finishes brushing her teeth and washing her face, he’s still not back. She starts toward the door to his office, then realizes she should probably get her dressing gown. She doubts he’d have anyone in there this late, but still, it is his office. 

Wrapping the dressing gown around her, she knocks before opening the door to his office. She pulls the gown tighter around her when she sees that he is not in fact alone in the office. Draco Malfoy sits across the desk from him, looking at her in that smug, contemptuous way of his. “Malfoy.”

“Granger.” His tone is neutral, but his eyes move briefly over her body before returning to her face.

She looks at Severus, who is looking at Malfoy as though he’d like to use him for potions ingredients. When Severus turns to look back at her, his expression softens. “I’ll be finished shortly.”

* * *

Hermione nods and leaves the office without looking at Draco again. But Draco never takes his eyes from her until the door closes behind her. Severus, who has been watching his godson looking at his wife, feels the twin knives of jealousy and shame twisting in his gut. Jealousy because it is obvious that Draco—handsome, rich, and the right age for her—is still interested in Hermione. Shame because he knows what Draco must think of him—what everyone must think—that he’s a besotted fool, believing she cares for him when she’s just making the best of a bad situation. She needs his protection, and she’s sensible enough to want to make the arrangement as tolerable as possible for the time she needs him. She enjoys the sex, he knows that, but that means nothing—she’s curious and intelligent and open-minded, and he’s good at it. When he was younger, he studied sex the way he did Potions, determined to compensate in skill for his unfortunate appearance.

When he’s with Hermione, these thoughts are easily banished. It’s when they’re apart that the doubts begin to seep in and poison his thoughts. Now, sitting across the desk from a young man who intends to actively pursue her once she is free from their forced marriage, the doubts consume him.

“You’ve done well tonight,” he says, taking care to keep his tone neutral. “We can continue tomorrow at the same time.”

Draco’s eyes slide briefly to the door to Severus’s quarters before he stands and heads for the door that opens onto the corridor. “Have a pleasant evening, Uncle.”

Like both Lucius and Narcissa—like most Slytherins, really, including Severus—Draco is very good at saying a great deal by what he leaves unsaid. Feeling very much like the dirty old man Draco clearly thinks he is, Severus locks his office and returns to his quarters. The light in their bedroom—no, _his_ bedroom, despite the fact that Hermione has made herself at home here for the time being—has been dimmed.

Hermione, lying on what has become her side of the bed, sits up. “Come here.”

He looks at her, beautiful and wanton with her hair tumbling over her bare shoulders, eyes dark with desire. He wants to rush to her, pounce on her like an animal, ravish her. But instead, he begins untying his cravat. “I will once I’ve changed and brushed my teeth.”

“Now.”

He removes his frock coat and hangs it up, then walks to her side of the bed and sits down beside her. “What’s the emergency?”

“This.” She puts her arms around his neck and kisses him. Her lips are parted, her tongue seeking entrance, which he allows. At first, he lets her set the pace, until something in him ignites and one of his arms circles her waist, pulling her closer as the other slides into that riotous mane of curls that she complains of but he finds intoxicating. He lets himself sink into the kiss, tasting the mint of her toothpaste and beyond it that taste that is simply _her_ , one he’s grown to know and to crave. He feels her short nails scrape his scalp as her fingers comb through his hair and he groans. 

How did she know that this was what he needed, to feel her desire, let it wash away the worry and uncertainty that plagues him? When he is away from her, he convinces himself that what is between them is ordinary, that it means nothing, that it does not mean that he is the one she wants, only him, no other. When he is with her, like this, he knows better. He knows that she wants him as much as he wants her, and he doesn’t give a good goddamn what anyone else thinks. He knows this is real, and that if he has to give her up, it will be like losing a part of his soul.


	40. Chapter 40

Severus spreads raspberry jam on a slice of toast. “If it all happens on a single day, there’s less time for things to go wrong.”

Hermione ignores her breakfast and counts on her fingers. “Kill the Lestranges. Get the cup from their vault. Destroy it. Tell Harry that he has to die. Convince him not to go to the Headmaster, but instead to trust us and go along with our plan. Take Harry to the Dark Lord, him Polyjuiced as Rodolphus Lestrange, me as Bellatrix.” She shudders. “I cannot begin to tell you how much I hate that part of the plan.” She resumes counting. “Lucius Imperiuses Goyle. Goyle kills Nagini right before Harry’s Polyjuice wears off, while mine is still in effect. The Dark Lord kills Harry. You kill the Dark Lord.” She’s now holding up all ten fingers. “Not quite as bad as Dumbledore’s plan, but still a lot of moving parts.”

Severus swallows a bite of eggs and picks up his coffee cup. “Agreed.” He takes a sip. “I do wish you would eat something.”

Hermione picks up a slice of toast but doesn’t eat it. “And it all has to happen before Draco lets crazy Aunt Bella and the other Death Eaters in through that cabinet and you have to kill the Headmaster to save precious little Draco’s soul.”

“That about sums it up.” He watches, gratified, as she finally takes a bite.

Hermione sets the toast down and frowns. “I suppose _you_ have to kill the Lestranges?”

“No. Lucius will do that.”

“Good. I hate the idea of you killing people.” She cuts the end of a piece of sausage and puts it in her mouth.

“What about the Dark Lord?”

“He’s not exactly _people_ , is he?”

“Not anymore, no.”

Her brows furrow. “And yet he was, once. He was a little boy in a Muggle orphanage, with no one to help him understand the strange things he made happen, confused and probably afraid.”

Severus pours himself more coffee. “Leave it to you to try to psychoanalyze the Dark Lord.”

“I know. It’s pointless. Hitler and Stalin and Mao were someone’s babies once. Every serial killer was. People grow up the way they do, and then we have to deal with them as they are.” She eats her breakfast in silence for a few minutes, but Severus can practically see the wheels turning in her mind as she chews and swallows. “Will we take the potion and do a trial run of the whole thing, do you think?”

It’s astonishing how often their minds work in exactly the same way. “I’ve been thinking about that. We probably should, but can you imagine how frustrating it would be if it all went off without a hitch, the Dark Lord dead, the war over, but we had to wake up the next morning with him alive again?”

“What if we brought the potion with us, and one of us takes it if things fall apart? If you, Lucius and I all have it with us, surely all three of us wouldn’t be killed or incapacitated before we could take it?”

“I was thinking we could provide Cissy or Draco with a dose as well, just in case.”

“Not Draco.”

“I’ve been inside his mind, Hermione. He wants the Dark Lord dead as much as we do.”

“So you say. But I can’t help it. I don’t like him and I don’t trust him.”

“He likes you.”

Her only response is a derisive snort.

“He petitioned for you under the marriage law.”

“Wanting to shag me isn’t the same as liking me. After all, does Dolohov _like_ me?”

“Draco didn’t petition for the same reason Dolohov did.”

“Draco Malfoy has hated me since we were first years.”

“You do know why little boys pull little girls’ plaits and call them names in the schoolyard, don’t you?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Severus. You’re not trying to tell me that the Ferret has had a _crush_ on me all these years that he’s been sneering at me and calling me Mudblood?”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you. Moreover, if we succeed in killing the Dark Lord and the marriage law is abolished, I believe it’s his intention to court you.”

Her mouth opens and she draws in a breath as she stares at him. Then her expression shifts, and she sneers, “Wouldn’t Lucius and Narcissa just love _that_?” 

“You have utterly charmed Lucius, and well you know it.”

“Finding me unobjectionable as your wife and co-conspirator is different from finding me acceptable as his son’s wife, able to give him only second-rate Halfblood heirs.”

“Lucius and Cissy have recently discovered that the Malfoys are not quite as pure as the rest of wizarding society believes them to be. In light of that, I believe both of them would be very much in favor of a marriage that would go a long way toward helping rehabilitate Draco’s reputation.”

“Why would I lift a finger to rehabilitate Malfoy’s reputation? He deserves what he gets.”

Severus sighs. “I would very much like to tell you that once the Dark Lord is dead, everything will be sunshine and roses, that the lions will lie down with the snakes and prejudice against Muggleborns will disappear. Believe me when I tell you that it will not. You will always have to work twice as hard, be twice as good as any Pureblood, and still you will face bigotry.”

“You really believe that? You don’t think people will have learned their lesson from this horror? That things won’t change?”

“Did they learn their lesson after Grindlewald?”

She is silent for a time. “So, you think nothing will change? That our children and grandchildren will have to go through this shite all over again?”

Severus sets aside the _our children and grandchildren_ comment, understanding that she means by it _our generation’s_ children and grandchildren, not _our_ as in Severus and Hermione’s. “I am by nature a pessimistic man. I think it is possible that things may change, someday, but that will not happen without a combination of strategy, hard work, and luck.” He hesitates, not wanting to say what he is about to say, but feels as though he owes it to her to say it anyway. “And you would be in a far better position to bring about the kind of change you seek from inside the establishment than from without.”

For a moment, she looks confused, and then realization dawns. But instead of seeing the wheels in her mind start to turn as she begins to contemplate what she might accomplish with the Malfoy money and influence at her disposal, he sees her lip begin to quiver before she throws her napkin onto her plate, stands, and stalks to her room—hers, not theirs—without another word and slams the door.

What did he say that upset her so much? He walks to her bedroom door and finds it warded, rather nastily. He knocks. “Hermione?” When she doesn’t answer, he says, “Come out so we can talk.”

“About what?”

“Not through the door, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind, actually.”

“I could easily dismantle your wards if I chose to.”

“But you won’t.”

He sighs. “No, I won’t.” He hesitates for a moment, then shakes his head and returns to his breakfast. He is not going to reward her drama and petulance with any more of his attention. She can marry whom she chooses once she’s free of this law, or not marry at all. It’s none of his concern. He wasn’t trying to tell her she _should_ marry Draco, merely pointing out the possible advantages if she really is serious about trying to change the hidebound society in which they live. Obviously, he overestimated her commitment to social revolution. She is, after all, still a very young woman. She’s still governed by her feelings to an extent an older witch would not be, and is probably still mooning over that idiot Weasley. She’d rather marry into that impoverished family than one that could help her achieve her goals because she’s a silly, hormonal girl. He would do well to remember that. 


	41. Chapter 41

Hermione is reading in bed. Her bed, not Severus’s, which isn’t theirs. It’s his, and she doesn’t belong there, not if he’s making plans to marry her off to his goddamn godson once snake-face is dead and he can be rid of her.

Severus is with Voldemort now. Before he left, he told her to take the potion if he didn’t return. Well, obviously. Does he think she’s an imbecile? She’s relieved they’ll be able to get all this over with, and she can move on with her life. Not a life married to Draco the slimy Ferret Malfoy, and not one married to Severus the cold-hearted bastard Snape, who can’t wait to unload her onto said Ferret.

She pushes away the thoughts she’s been stupid enough to entertain recently, of their life together after the war is over. He doesn’t want that. She fooled herself into thinking he did, because the sex was so good. But the fact that he likes shagging her doesn’t mean he loves her, or even likes her. Her mother warned her about that when she gave Hermione the birds and bees talk, told her that some men—not all of them, but a lot—are happy to have sex with a woman without caring about her in the slightest. Mum said women, and young women especially, often mistake sex for love, and Hermione would do well to remember that so as not to let herself be hurt. Mum and Dad were in their late thirties when they married, and Mum told her more than once how grateful she was to be married to a man she chose for sensible reasons, and not because her hormones were playing tricks on her. 

Hermione wishes she could talk to Mum now. Mum, who has no idea her daughter is married, because in the wizarding world, Hermione is of age and doesn’t need to tell her parents anything if she chooses not to. She did choose not to. Why worry them needlessly? If she’d gone into hiding rather than marry, she’d have had to tell them, because they’d have needed to hide along with her. But she couldn’t ask them to do that, give up their lives, walk away from a successful dental practice they’ve spent so many years building. Now, she writes them letters about her NEWT preparation, sharing with them the happy news that the Headmaster is allowing her to take her exams a full year early without the markedly less happy reason why. 

She feels the wards before she hears Severus enter the sitting room. She wants to know what happened, but doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of leaving her room and asking him. When, after what feels like an agonizingly long time, he knocks on her bedroom door, she feels a grim sense of satisfaction. She knows it’s petty, but she can’t help it. “Enter,” she says, adopting his form of answering a knock at the door, as well as that insultingly bored tone he uses so often. He has long since stopped using it with her, though she supposes that if things continue as they are, he’ll start again.

He opens the door, no longer in his Death Eater robes, but with frock coat and cravat still on. “I’ll take the potion. Tomorrow is the day.”

She doesn’t answer, just picks up her own dose of the potion from the bedside table. Before she can open it, it flies out of her hand and across the room to his. She throws the duvet back and is out of bed in an instant, stalking across the room to him. “Give that back.”

“There is no need for both of us to take the potion.”

If she doesn’t take it, she won’t remember this day, won’t know that he cares so little about her that he’d just as soon foist her off on Malfoy. The idea that she’ll wake up tomorrow and continue making a fool of herself acting as though this marriage means something to him is more than she can bear. “The fuck there isn’t. Give it to me.”

“Goodnight, Miss Granger.”

There it is. That bored, annoyed tone. The one he hasn’t used with her in weeks. And _Miss Granger_. God. She will _not_ cry. She absolutely, positively will not. As he turns to go, she grabs his arm. “This is wrong, Severus. You know it is. It’s stealing something that belongs to me. My memories.” When he still does not release the vial, she whispers, “If you do this, I will never forgive you.”

“There will be nothing to forgive, since you will not remember.”

“But you will. You’ll know.” She gasps as a terrible thought occurs to her. “How many times have you done this already? How many days have I lost? How many things do you remember that I don’t?” The tears she’s been fighting spill over now. “I’ll never be able to trust you, will I?”

* * *

Severus lies awake, as he used to so often before Hermione began sleeping beside him. Now, with her side of the bed cold and empty, he tosses and turns just as before. 

Why did he give her the potion? If he hadn’t, she’d wake here in his bed tomorrow—a new today—with everything fine between them. They’d have breakfast, talk about the logistics of the plan, and he’d keep his stupid fucking mouth shut about stupid fucking Draco. 

But he did give it to her. Like some bone-headed Gryffindor. There was absolutely no benefit to him in doing so. She would never have known. But he would have, as she pointed out. What of it? the pragmatic, morally ambiguous part of him argued. As has been happening distressingly often of late, that pragmatic, morally ambiguous part of him lost the argument.

She will still wake in his bed in the morning, he realizes, because she woke here today. But she’ll get up and storm out the moment she wakes. She’ll go back to that bedroom that he should have had the castle swallow up weeks ago, as he contemplated doing. But he told her he’d never force himself on her, that being him with him would always be her choice. So, he left the room, and now she’s in there, crying and angry at him.

Why do her tears affect him as they do? As a Head of House, he’s accustomed to tears from temperamental young women, and they’ve never affected him much. But the tears of _this_ temperamental young woman put him in such a state that he can’t sleep or think straight. The thought that she might be sobbing behind a silencing charm right now, hurt and miserable because of him is almost more than he can bear. He wants to tear down those wards and pull her into his arms. He aches to kiss away her tears and beg her to forgive him.

Beg her to forgive him? God. No. Please, no. Not this. Not again. He has _not_ gone and fallen in love with another unattainable Gryffindor Muggleborn, has he? This one at least reciprocates his sexual attraction, but that’s all it is. She’s not in love with him. How could she be? She was forced into this marriage. He’s twice her age, and has little to recommend him in terms of looks or fortune. All her friends hate him. And tonight, she said that she’d never be able to trust him.

* * *

He wakes early, as he told himself to do before falling asleep. Maudlin and ridiculous to want to see her sleeping beside him one last time, he knows, but he allows himself this one last indulgence before he closes the door on this latest embarrassing chapter in the life and loves of Severus Snape, pathetic dunderhead of the first order.

Her breathing is even and regular. A stray curl lies near her mouth, and normally he would brush it away, but today he does not, because it will wake her, and then she will leave. He needs the loo, but he doesn’t go, in case she is gone when he returns. Eventually, the needs of his body force him from the bed, but when he returns, she is still asleep. It is only when he gets back into bed that she stirs. Her lashes flutter and then she opens her eyes. When she looks up at him and smiles, his heart leaps. She _has_ forgiven him! But then the events of the previous night come back to her, and her gaze shutters. She starts to get out of bed, then realizes she is naked, and Summons her dressing gown. He drinks in one last look at her bare back and shoulders before she pulls the garment on, crosses the room, and closes the door behind her.


	42. Chapter 42

Severus is halfway through breakfast when Hemione emerges from her bedroom, hair in a tight plait, and sits down across from him. She pours tea and takes a sip.

“The Lestranges are dead,” he says. “Lucius just Flooed.”

She nods.

“I thought you could send Potter a Patronus to meet us here after we finish breakfast.”

She picks up her wand. “Expecto Patronum.” As he has seen happen before, she fails to conjure her otter on the first try. He has always had to concentrate more to cast this spell than any other, but it surprised him to learn that Hermione—Granger, he supposes he should get used to thinking of her as again—has difficulty with it as well. The second time she repeats the incantation, the silver otter appears. “Harry, there’s something I need to speak with you about. Could you come to Professor Snape’s quarters in about fifteen minutes, please?”

Not _her_ quarters. Not theirs. His. And he’s Professor Snape again.

She puts salt and pepper on her eggs. “Would you prefer that I speak with him alone first, or will you be there?”

“I would prefer to be present, but it would be best if you do most of the talking.”

She nods, and sets about eating her breakfast. They exchange not a single word more as they both finish eating. The silence, broken only by the clink of cutlery on porcelain, is thicker than the marmalade he spreads on his toast. He takes one last bite and rises from the table, moving to the sofa where he stares unseeing at an issue of _Potions Quarterly_ so he will not have to look at her across the table. 

When Potter arrives, Severus allows her to answer the door. Potter’s surprise is evident when he sees Severus sitting on the sofa. 

“We both need to talk to you, Harry,” Hermione says.

Potter looks back and forth between them. “About what?”

“Before I tell you, I’d like you to promise me that you’ll listen to everything before getting upset and storming out or calling the Headmaster.”

“Why would I call the Headmaster? Have you done something he should know about?”

Severus forces himself to remain silent.

“Harry, I’m asking you, as your friend, to promise. Please, will you do this one thing for me?”

Potter looks at Severus, then turns to Hermione and huffs, “Yes.”

She takes a breath. “We know what all the Horcruxes are.”

“You told _him_?” He glares at Severus. “He’s a Death Eater, and you told him?”

“Harry, you promised you’d listen.”

“But you—”

“Harry! Did you or did you not promise?”

Potter glares at her. “Fine.”

“We’ve found and destroyed all but two of them. His familiar, the snake, is one, and we can’t kill her until just before we kill him, since he always keeps her with him.”

“A Horcrux can be something living?”

“It can.”

“Doesn’t seem to make sense, choosing something that could die rather than an indestructible object.”

“I know.”

“You said two more. What’s the other one?”

“The other one is an accidental Horcrux, one he never intended to make, and in fact doesn’t know exists.” She bites her lip. “It’s also something living.”

Potter frowns. “I don’t understand. How could he make a Horcrux without intending to?”

“A Horcrux is created by casting the killing curse with the intent of making one. When the Dark Lord was making one of his Horcruxes, something went wrong when he cast the killing curse. The person he was trying to kill didn’t die. The spell rebounded and—”

“Hermione, are you talking about when he tried to kill me?”

She nods. 

Severus watches Potter’s face, which shows every emotion as he feels it—confusion, disbelief, horror, fear, and finally—predictably, given that it’s Potter—anger.

“Are you saying that _I’m_ a Horcrux? That I have to die for Voldemort to be killed?”

Severus suppresses his grimace as pain twists in his arm at the sound of the Dark Lord’s name. 

“Harry, would you not say the name, please?” Hermione asks.

“Because your goddamn Death Eater husband doesn’t like it? Voldemort. There. Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort.”

Severus turns his back, unwilling to let Potter see the physical effect his words have.

“Silencio!” Hermione shouts.

When Severus has regained control of his features, he turns to see the silenced Potter red-faced, his lips moving with words no one can hear.

“I’ll end the spell when you calm down,” Hermione says. When Potter stops moving his mouth and slumps down onto the sofa, she asks, “Can I remove the spell?” He nods. “Finite,” she says, but keeps her wand in her hand and her eyes on Potter.

“Is that why I can feel his thoughts sometimes?” Potter asks. “Why I can speak Parseltongue?”

“I’m almost certain that it is,” Hermione replies. 

“Does Dumbledore know?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Sev— Professor Snape can show you the memory.”

“I don’t want him in my head.”

“You’ll be in his head, Harry.”

“That’s even worse.”

“Harry, either let him show you, or trust me.”

Potter turns to Severus. “Fine. Show me.”

“Cast when you are ready, Mr. Potter.” 

Potter picks up his wand. “Legilimens.”

Severus pushes forward the memory of being in Albus’s head, seeing the old man think about Potter being a Horcrux, but not the part where he learned that Potter only has to believe he is sacrificing himself.

“Dumbledore knows,” Potter says, eyes glistening. “He knows, and he didn’t tell me.” He turns to Hermione. “I thought—” He falls silent, shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.”

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” Hermione says, tears in her eyes as well. Unlike Potter, who holds his back, she lets hers fall. “We’ve tried to find a way to get it out of you.”

“We?” Potter scoffs, glaring at Severus. “He was probably overjoyed at the news.”

“Overjoyed that I’ve spent six years protecting you only to learn this?” Severus asks.

“You only protected me because Dumbledore made you.”

“I protected you because you’re the son of the first friend I ever had.”

“You hated my father.”

“I did,” Severus acknowledges. “I was referring to your mother.” As both Potter and Hermione stare at him, he continues, “Lily Evans and I lived near each other when we were children. From the time I was nine years old until I was sixteen, I spent as much time at her house as I did my own.”

“But I saw that memory,” Potter says. “You called her a Mudblood.”

Hermione turns to stare at Potter, and then at Severus, connecting the dots: that’s why he hates that word.

“Because I had as little control over my stupid mouth at sixteen as you do, Potter. That was what ended our friendship. She never forgave me, and I never stopped regretting it.”

“Did you ask her to?” Hermione asks.

“It’s ancient history, and it doesn’t matter.” He turns to Potter. “What matters is destroying the Dark Lord. For what it’s worth, Potter, I am sorry that you were made a Horcrux. You probably don’t believe me, but as much as I dislike you, I don’t want you to die.”

Potter looks at him for a long time. “Will you show me some of the memories of you and my mother when you were children?”

“You think I made up the friendship to trick you?”

“No, I just want to see her. Please.”

The last thing Severus wants to do is dredge up old memories of Lily Evans, but they need Potter to calm down and cooperate, so he nods. He prepares the memories and walks to the sofa. Hermione stands so he can sit beside Potter, who raises his wand. He shows the boy the memory of when he and Lily met at the park, then a few others during the next two years, then ends with Lily excited because she’d received her Hogwarts letter. He pushes Potter out of his mind then, firmly but not harshly.

“She was beautiful,” Potter says.

“She was,” Severus agrees.

“You hated me because I was my father’s son,” Potter says. “But I was her son, too.”

“And had I behaved toward you with that in mind, the Dark Lord would have made different assumptions about where my loyalty lies than he has.”

* * *

Hermione goes over the plan with Harry for the third time. Severus retreated to his bedroom after the first time, saying he had a headache. He was remarkably patient with Harry, all things considered.

“You’re sure you’ve got it?” she asks.

“I may not be as smart as you and Snape, but I’m not stupid,” Harry huffs.

“I know you’re not. It’s just that we’ve only got one chance to get this right.” That’s not true, of course, but they haven’t told Harry about the do-over potion. Honestly, the idea of living through this day over again fills Hermione with despair. Between the drama with Harry, the stress of whether anything will go wrong tonight, and the terrible tension between her and Severus after their fight last night, it’s all she can do to keep it together.

“And because the end is the same for me whether it works or doesn’t, I don’t exactly have the same incentive as the rest of you?”

“Harry.” Her eyes fill with tears. How many times does this make in the last twelve hours? It’s amazing there’s any liquid left in there.

“I don’t mean to wallow in self-pity.”

“But how can you not, really? I mean, it’s all so goddamn fucking unfair!”

Harry gives her a half smile. “You never used to swear this much, Mione.”

She jerks her thumb at Severus’s bedroom door. “Bad influence.”

“Really?” He casts Muffliato. “I can’t quite picture Snape swearing.”

“Not only does he swear, but he swears like a Muggle from the dodgy neighborhood he grew up in.”

“It really was dodgy.” He glances at the closed bedroom door, but the spell is in place so he continues. “I knew my mum wasn’t rich. Aunt Petunia was forever carrying on about how when she was a girl they didn’t have this, that, and the other. But judging from the way Snape looked in those memories, I think his family was much worse off than Mum and Petunia’s. I think he was _really_ poor.” 

Hermione remembers how he described his father the one time they talked about his family. _The lowest sort of Manc you can imagine_ , he said. The kind who neglected his son? Possibly worse? She closes her eyes. Poor Severus. Though he’d hate her thinking this way, hate being pitied.

“Hermione?”

She opens her eyes and looks at Harry.

“You like him, don’t you?”

She nods, and feels the prick of tears again. What is _wrong_ with her? “I know you’d rather I didn’t.”

Harry shrugs. “It’s kind of hard to go on hating someone after you’ve seen him as an undernourished little kid dressed in hand-me-downs that don’t fit. I mean, takes one to know one, you know?”

Hermione moves closer to Harry on the sofa and leans her head on his shoulder. He puts his arm around her. They’re still sitting that way when Severus emerges from his bedroom. “As much as I hate to disrupt such a touching tableau, I’m afraid we have more preparation to do for this evening.”

“Right.” Harry stands and extends his hand to Severus. “Treat her right, sir. I’ll come back as a ghost and haunt you if you don’t.”

“This law will not long outlive the Dark Lord. You’ll have to ask Miss Granger which wizard to threaten before shuffling off this mortal coil.”

Hermione glares at Severus. They both know Harry isn’t really going to die, but Harry doesn’t. She looks at Harry, who doesn’t look angry, only puzzled. He looks from Severus to her. “I don’t think he knows.”

“What do I not know, Mr. Potter?”

“That’s for your wife to tell you, not me. Bye, Hermione.” He hugs her and leaves.

“What is for you to tell me?” Severus asks when he’s gone.

Taking a page from the Slytherin doublespeak playbook, she says, “I really couldn’t say.”


	43. Chapter 43

“Again,” Severus demands.

Hermione throws back her head, black curls cascading down over her tight corset, and lets loose a peal of deranged laughter.

“Perfect. You’ve got her mad cackle down pat.” Thank God. She spent nearly an hour watching memories of Bellatrix in his mind, and he’s thoroughly sick of thinking about her.

“You’re not surprised, Snape? Our lord doesn’t put his trust in incompetents.” She pauses as though recalling something, then narrows her smoky eyes and laying a long red talon along her jaw. “Oh, wait. Actually, in your case, he made an exception.” She turns her back on him and walks away, balancing perfectly on her magically cushioned high heels, hips swaying.

Severus shudders. “I’ve created a monster.”

Hermione looks over her shoulder at him. “You wanted me to stay in character, Sevvy. Don’t whinge when you get what you ask for.” With a toss of her curls, she continues toward the sofa and sits down. She crosses her legs, letting the black silk ride high on her thigh, and looks at Severus the way a cat looks at a cornered mouse.

As he watches, the Polyjuice wears off, and her curls fade from black to brown. She hasn’t yet Charmed away the red lips and nails and the dramatic eye makeup or Transfigured the provocative robes back to jeans and a t-shirt, so she looks disconcertingly like a cross between herself and Bellatrix. He thought she’d need to watch more memories of the mad witch than she did before being able to mimic her speech patterns and body language.

She looks at the vial of potion. “Do I need to do it again?”

“No, you’re ready.”

* * *

“Bella, my most loyal servant, come to me.”

“As my lord wishes.” Hermione approaches the monster on Bellatrix’s sky-high heels, moving her hips as the other witch does, careful to hide her disgust at the Dark Lord’s noseless face and scaly skin. He wraps one of his arms around her, squeezing her hip with his long, bony hand and she forces herself not to shudder.

“Who are you, pet?”

 _Who_? Her heart pounds in her chest and she can scarcely breathe. Without meaning to, she looks at Severus, panicked. The monster follows her gaze, and his face twists into what looks almost like a smile. He points his wand at Severus and says, “Incercerus. Expelliarmus.” As the magical ropes bind Severus, his wand sails into the Dark Lord’s hand.

Then the Dark Lord is in her mind. She slams her library shields into place, not bothering with the pretense of not Occluding. He tears books off the shelves at random, remaining only long enough to see whose memories they are. When he withdraws from her mind, leaving her head throbbing, he looks at Severus. “I do not recall asking you to bring your Mudblood filth here this evening, Severus. But since you have, I’m sure we can find something entertaining to do with her.”

At the series of gasps and exclamations of “Potter!” that erupt from the side of the room, Hermione turns to see Harry transforming back from Rodolphus Lestrange to himself. Like Severus, he is bound by magical ropes. From the back of the room Dolohov and Macnair drag a similarly bound Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy to stand beside Severus. Hermione feels herself starting to hyperventilate, and forces herself to take deeper breaths. She, Severus, Lucius, and Narcissa all have a dose of the do-over potion. If none of them can take it because they are all dead or at least incapacitated, there is no second chance.

“Did it not occur to you that I have spies everywhere? My source at Gringott’s told me not only that Bella and her husband were dead, but that her poor grieving sister and brother-in-law had raced to her vault before the bodies were even cold.” He looks at Narcissa. “Your own sister. How could you?”

“She didn’t,” Lucius says. “She didn’t know anything about it. “It was me. Only me.”

“We shall see. Crucio.”

Narcissa screams and falls to the floor, where she writhes and convulses, still constrained by the Incercerus bindings. The Dark Lord lowers his wand and watches her pant and gasp and vomit on the expensive carpet, then raises it again. “Legilimens.” After a moment he withdraws and turns to Lucius. “You lied. She did know. But fortunately for you, your son did not, else the House of Malfoy would have become extinct this night. Draco, come here.”

Draco Malfoy walks from the back of the room to the front, his eyes on the Dark Lord and not his parents. 

Voldemort casts the killing curse twice, then turns to the only living Malfoy. “Take your rightful place as the head of your family.”

Malfoy pales, and when he speaks, his voice quavers. “Yes, my lord.” He turns back to the Dark Lord who is still gripping Hermione with his claw-like hand. She feels the effects of the Polyjuice end as she transforms from Bellatrix’s form back to herself. She shrinks back as Nagini climbs her master’s legs, inching closer to Hermione.

“You petitioned to marry this filthy thing, did you not, Draco?” the Dark Lord asks.

“Yes, my lord.”

“You do not still want her, do you? Now that she is the traitor Snape’s leavings?” 

“No, my lord. Unless you wish me to have her, my lord.” Malfoy appears to have gotten himself under control now, as his voice is no longer tremulous.

“Not as your wife, certainly. But as your plaything, you may, if you so choose. If you do not, I shall give her to Antonin. Or perhaps to Nagini?” He strokes the giant serpent as it nuzzles him and then flicks its tongue at Hermione. “Would you like that, precious?” When the snake hisses, the Dark Lord chuckles. “I thought you might.”

Hermione shudders. 

The monster laughs again. “So, you prefer young Malfoy to my Nagini? Well, then I shall grant your wish, provided you perform one small task for me.” He waits, but Hermione doesn’t speak. “The correct answer is ‘Yes, my lord,’ Mudblood. Draco, instruct her.”

Draco’s eyes widen in surprise and, if Hermione didn’t know better, she’d say panic. She gives him an almost imperceptible nod. She knows this isn’t his fault, and if he doesn’t do it, someone else will, and she fervently hopes that someone is not Voldemort. Then she is on the floor, every nerve in her body on fire. It does not last long, but during the seconds it does, the pain is unlike anything she’s ever experienced.

The Dark Lord laughs indulgently. “You play very nicely with your toys, Draco. Cissy said you always did.” He glances at Narcissa’s body. “Poor Cissy. I always liked your mother, Draco. That is why I did her and your father the kindness of killing them quickly. A great pity, this whole sordid business.” He turns to Harry. “But what a lovely silver lining to all this betrayal.” Then he casts the killing curse once more, and in a flash of green, Harry is dead.

Hermione emits a strangled wail. It can’t end like this. It just can’t. Not after all their planning and preparing. This can’t be the end. She looks at Severus. 

His face is a mask of anguish. “I’m so sorry, Hermione,” he says. “I love you.”

“I love you, Severus,” she says through her tears. “I only wish I’d told you before.”

“I wish I had, too.”

“Isn’t this touching?” the Dark Lord says. “Such a poignant little drama. Our very own tragic love story, played out right here for all of our amusement. Are you not amused, Draco?”

“Very much so, my lord.”

“Antonin, are you also entertained?”

“Yes, my lord,” Dolohov says.

“But you are vexed that I have given the Mudblood to Draco.”

“It is as my lord wishes.”

“I do have a consolation prize for you, Antonin.”

“My lord?”

He gestures at Severus. “You may execute the traitor in whatever manner you wish.”

Dolohov bows his head. “My lord is too kind.”

“Draco, would you like to watch, or shall I excuse you to enjoy your plaything?”

“I am sorry to miss the spectacle, my lord, but if she stays to watch, I doubt my plaything will afford me much amusement tonight.”

The Dark Lord gives him a fond smile. “Quite so, my boy. Run along, then.” He pats Hermione’s hip nauseatingly close to her arse and says, “You too, Mudblood. Be a good girl for the new master of Malfoy Manor.”

Before Draco leads her off, Hermione looks at Severus and wills him to understand. She loves him. She doesn’t blame him for this. She’s shattered and heartbroken and mourning Harry, but she loves him. For the briefest moment, she feels him as he enters her mind, and knows he loves her. She may not blame him, but he blames himself, and the pain she feels in his mind is almost more than she can bear. She doesn’t want him to die feeling this way, but there is nothing she can do.

As Hermione climbs the grand staircase at Draco’s side, neither of them speak. Her husband is about to be tortured to death, and she’s supposed to be a good girl, Malfoy’s little plaything. And Malfoy? He’s just watched his parents die. Surely, he is in no mood to _play_.

Malfoy stops in front of one of the doors. He opens it and stands back for her to enter first. The room is large, and tastefully decorated in shades of cream, gray, and dark green. There is a large four-poster bed, armoire, small table and chairs, a love seat and two armchairs near a fireplace. Malfoy drops into one of the armchairs and releases an audible breath.

“I’m sorry about your parents,” Hermione says.

Malfoy pulls a vial out of his pocket and holds it up. It’s empty, but the residue in the bottom is light blue. “Do you know what this is, Granger?”

She practically flies across the room and takes the vial from him. “Oh, God, Malfoy, did Severus give you that?”

“Yes. He said to take it if things went badly. He didn’t tell me why, but he made me swear I would, so I did. Do you know what it is?”

“Yes,” she smiles through her tears. Thank God Severus didn’t listen when she told him not to give the potion to Draco.

“What does it do?”

“It resets time. Tomorrow morning you’ll wake up and it will be today again. Because you’re the only one who took the potion, you’re the only one who will remember today. You’ll have to go to Severus and me first thing and tell us everything that happened today, because we won’t remember.”

“Do you mean none of this will have happened? My parents will be alive?”

“Yes, Malfoy, that’s exactly what I mean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought about making this chapter a cliffhanger and not letting readers know Malfoy took the potion, but I just couldn't be that cruel.
> 
> Many thanks to all who are reading and commenting, and especially to turtle_wexler who beta read the story.


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the members of my original fiction critique group (to whom I've just come out of the closet and shared my fanfic alter ego) I've referred to writing stories here as "heroin for the depressed writer." Yesterday, it was all that and more. The comments (AO3) and reviews (FF dot net) were more gratifying than I can begin to tell you. It was a really busy work day, so I didn't get to reply to most of them, but I really cannot express sufficiently how wonderful it feels to know that readers are getting as much enjoyment out of my writing as a lot of you did yesterday from the harrowing and frustrating Chapter 43. Thank you, dear readers, SO much for giving me my fix.

Hermione opens her eyes and is momentarily confused. She dreamed that Severus was dead but when she turns her head, she sees him and smiles because he’s very much alive. Then she remembers—she went to sleep in her own bed, not here, didn’t she? It takes only a moment for the fog to clear, and she remembers their argument, and how he was Summoned to the Dark Lord and didn’t want her to take the potion so she wouldn’t remember. He finally gave in and gave her back the vial he’d taken from her, but it was an ugly row, and she cried herself to sleep.

Now, because of the potion, she’s naked in his bed instead of tear-stained in hers. She Summons her dressing gown, puts it on, and walks out of his bedroom without looking at him. As she’s passing through the sitting room on the way to her room, she feels the wards shimmer, and then there’s a pounding at the door that leads to the corridor. As she’s crossing the room to answer it, Severus comes striding out of his room, tying his dressing gown around him, and gets there first. Obviously recognizing the person’s magical signature, he opens the door and steps back so Draco Malfoy can enter. 

“It went tits up, and I was the only one able to take the potion,” Malfoy says.

Severus sits on the sofa. “What happened?”

Malfoy sits in one of the armchairs. “His spies at Gringott’s told him that Bella and Rodolphus were dead, and that my parents had been to the vault. When Potter and Granger showed up Polyjuiced as the Lestranges, he knew right off they were impostors.”

Hermione sits in the other armchair. “What did he do?”

Before Malfoy can answer, Severus interrupts, “I’m not sure we need to know the details, do we?”

Malfoy looks back and forth between Severus and Hermione. “No, I don’t suppose you do.”

“You mean I don’t need to know them,” she says to Severus. 

“Fine,” he snaps. “You want the gory details? Go on, Draco. Tell her.”

Malfoy shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “Look, I don’t really want to be in the middle of this. It was bad, okay? Really, really, _really_ bad. He killed my parents. You sure you want to know what happened to you?”

Hermione feels queasy. “Oh, God, Malfoy.”

Severus puts his hand on Malfoy’s but doesn’t say anything.

“But it didn’t happen. My parents are alive. Or at least I hope they are. I mean, I woke up here instead of in my room at the Manor, so I assume the potion worked the way Granger said it would, but I’d like to use your Floo to make sure.”

“Of course.” Severus throws Floo powder into the hearth and calls, “Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.”

“Severus, if you’ve woken me at this unholy hour for anything other than a life-threatening emergency, I shall be very cross,” Lucius says from the grate.

“Your son wanted to make sure you were alive,” Severus says, “since the Dark Lord killed you last night. But since he took the potion, apparently you’re none the worse for wear.”

“Draco?” Lucius says. 

Malfoy steps closer to the hearth. “I’m here, Father.”

“You were the only one who took the potion?”

“As far as I know. The Dark Lord’s spies at Gringott’s told him Bella was dead, and that you and Mother had been to her vault.”

“Well, back to the drawing board, then,” Lucius says.

“What about Imperius?” Hermione says. When they all look at her, she continues. “What if you Imperiused Bellatrix to get the cup from her vault, then Obliviated her?”

“What if the Dark Lord’s spies at Gringott’s told him I had accompanied her to her vault?”

“Could you Polyjuice yourself as her husband? They’d need her wand to access the vault, not both of yours, right?”

Lucius thinks about this. “Yes, when Cissy and I go together, only one of us needs to present a wand. Severus, what do you think?”

“It could work,” Severus says. “Though if the Lestranges are there, how do we get Potter in?”

“You can’t let the Lestranges go,” Hermione says. “What if the Dark Lord asks why they visited their vault?”

“So, we kill them after going to Gringott’s?” Lucius says.

“For fuck’s sake, Lucius, we don’t kill them at all. Have you never heard of Incarcerus?” Hermione snaps.

Severus and Lucius smile, but Malfoy stares at her. “No one talks to my father that way, Granger.”

Lucius chuckles. “Draco, I’m afraid Hermione almost never speaks to me any other way. I’ve grown accustomed to it.”

“And you call her Hermione?”

“What else would I call her?”

Malfoy looks at Hermione, who shrugs.

“We’ve got a lot of work to do today,” Severus says. “We need to get Potter on board and get Hermione ready to impersonate Bella, and Lucius, you need to Imperius Bella, destroy the cup, and then incapacitate and restrain both Lestranges until after tonight’s meeting.”

“What about me?” Malfoy asks. 

“You be ready to take the potion again tonight in case we need you to.”

* * *

After all the drama with Potter, Severus needed a headache potion and a few minutes away from the Boy Who Lived to Annoy Him. Once he’s feeling better, he returns to the sitting room, where he finds Hermione with her head on Potter’s shoulder. Severus has spent enough time in Hermione’s mind to know that her feelings for Potter are like those for a sibling, but he still can’t help the momentary flash of annoyance at seeing his wife in another man’s arms.

“As much as I hate to disrupt such a touching tableau, I’m afraid we have more preparation to do for this evening,” he says.

“Right.” Potter stands and extends his hand to Severus. “Treat her right, sir. I’ll come back as a ghost and haunt you if you don’t.”

Treat her right? What is the idiot boy talking about? “This law will not long outlive the Dark Lord. You’ll have to ask Miss Granger which wizard to threaten before shuffling off this mortal coil,” he sneers.

Hermione glares at him. Potter’s reaction is puzzlement. He looks from Severus to Hermione. “I don’t think he knows.”

“What do I not know, Mr. Potter?”

“That’s for your wife to tell you, not me. Bye, Hermione,” Potter says, hugging her again before he leaves. 

Can the infernal boy not keep his hands off Severus’s wife? Not that she’ll be his wife much longer, but for now, she is. “What is for you to tell me?” he asks.

“I really couldn’t say,” Hermione replies.

Severus studies her. When he gives an answer like that, it’s generally one of those _hide a lie behind the truth_ kind of things, but Hermione isn’t as sneaky as he is, so he lets it go. “Are you ready to prepare for tonight’s performance?”

“Yes.”

“What will you be watching for?”

“Her speech patterns, inflections, mannerisms, the way she walks, that sort of thing.”

“Right. When you’re ready.”

She picks up her wand. “Legilimens.”

* * *

Potter swallows the Polyjuice first, transforming before their eyes into Rodolphus Lestrange. Severus showed him memories of Lestrange to prepare him, but mainly Potter’s job is to keep his mouth shut, since Bella’s husband never says much at these meetings. Bella is another story, of course, so Hermione’s preparation took several hours. By the end of it, she was so convincing as to be, quite frankly, rather unnerving. She was positively vicious in the insulting things she said to him, and he suspects that she’s still brassed off after their argument last night, and channeling Bellatrix gave her an excuse to tell him off while pretending she wasn’t.

Hermione waits until they’re outside the gates and ready to Apparate before taking her Polyjuice, Transfiguring her robes, and Charming her makeup and fingernails. 

Potter removes the Invisibility Cloak he used to avoid walking through the castle as a Death Eater and stares at Hermione. “Blimey.”

“None of that once we arrive, Potter,” Severus says. “I am positive that I have never heard Rodolphus Lestrange say ‘blimey’.”

Potter makes the tick-a-lock sign that Muggle children use to indicate mum’s the word. 

Severus offers each of them an arm and then touches his wand to the Dark Mark. He steps away from the ersatz Lestranges immediately upon arriving, lest anyone wonder at their arriving together. Severus stays close enough to them to make sure they are playing their parts correctly. Hermione is perfect as Bellatrix, just mad enough to be in character, without veering into camp. Potter mercifully keeps his mouth shut. 

Severus looks around the room until he finds Lucius, who nods to indicate all is well. He watches as Lucius moves through the crowd until he reaches Goyle, with whom he stops to talk. The Dark Lord enters, and Lucius remains near Goyle, while Severus stays close but not too close to Hermione and Potter. He doesn’t know the precise details of what happened on the previous version of tonight, but he does remember the first iteration of it, a boring and unremarkable meeting after which he went home and got into the unfortunate row with Hermione over whether she should take the potion.

Now, the meeting proceeds as it did the first time. When only three minutes remain before Potter returns to himself, Severus looks at Lucius and nods almost imperceptibly. A moment later, Gregory Goyle, Sr. starts moving toward the front of the room. Lucius moves a little closer, but not too much. When Goyle is in front of the Dark Lord and his familiar, he pulls from his robe pocket the basilisk fang Lucius slipped into it a moment ago. Before anyone realizes what he is doing, Goyle has plunged the fang into Nagini, who hisses and whips her head around. Before the Dark Lord can command her to stop, she sinks her fangs deep into Goyle’s throat.

Severus avoids looking at Lucius, and hides the thrill of triumph he feels. They were prepared for the Dark Lord to perform Legilimency on Goyle and learn he’d been Imperiused, but the snake has made that impossible. As Goyle bleeds out, Nagini succumbs to the poison in the fang, and the Dark Lord emits a shriek the likes of which Severus has never heard. 

Then come the gasps of “Potter!” which begin in the boy’s vicinity and spread as more Death Eaters turn from the keening Dark Lord to the Boy Who Lived. Eventually, the commotion penetrates the Dark Lord’s fog of grief and fury, and he turns his red eyes in Potter’s direction.

“That’s right, you snake-faced arsehole. It’s me,” Potter shouts.

“Mr. Potter,” the Dark Lord hisses, walking through the crowd that parts before him. “You have saved me the trouble of hunting you down.” Then he lifts his wand. “Avada Kedavra.”

A hush falls over the crowd as Harry Potter falls in a flash of green. As he does, Lucius Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, and the witch who appears to be Bellatrix Lestrange move toward Severus, surrounding him and standing with their backs to him, ready to cast a shield charm. Once they are in place, Severus casts the killing curse at the Dark Lord, and is then engulfed in the shield that surrounds the four of them.


	45. Chapter 45

All hell breaks loose as Aurors burst in and begin Stunning Death Eaters and slapping Portkeys onto them. As more Death Eaters are Portkeyed away to the Ministry holding cells, Hermione transforms back to her own form. When Nymphadora Tonks sees Hermione, she rushes over to her. Hermione drops her shield and she gestures at Severus and the two Malfoys. “They’re on our side, all of them.”

“Narcissa told me so when she called, but they’ll still have to be questioned.”

Hermione rushes to where Harry was when he fell. He’s just beginning to stir. “Harry?”

Harry sits up. “Hermione? I thought I was supposed to be dead?”

“You were, briefly, I think, but only long enough for the Horcrux to die.”

“You knew I was going to live? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wish I could have, but in order to destroy the Horcrux, you had to believe you were sacrificing yourself.”

Harry looks around. “Is he dead?”

“The Dark Lord? Yes.”

“If he’s dead you don’t have to call him that anymore, right? You can just say Voldemort like a normal person instead of sounding like Mrs. Loyal Death Eater.”

“Voldemort is a stupid made-up name he gave himself. I’d rather call him Riddle.” She holds out a hand to help him up, and he takes it. Together they walk toward the corpse of Tom Riddle, his lifeless red eyes staring at the ceiling.

“I can’t believe it’s over,” Harry says. “It seems crazy that now my biggest worries are passing Potions without that book and getting Ginny to give me another chance.”

“I’d say you’ll be fine as far as Ginny’s concerned. As for Potions,” Hermione says, then falls silent as she looks around the room for the man who taught them Potions for most of their school career. She doesn’t see him or the Malfoys. “Excuse me, Harry.” She walks through the chaos that used to be the Malfoys’ lovely drawing room looking for Tonks. When Hermione finds her, she asks, “Where’s Severus?”

“He’s at the Ministry awaiting interrogation with the rest of the Death Eaters.”

“But he isn’t one of them. He’s been on our side all along.”

“They’ll get it all sorted soon enough, Hermione. There’s paperwork that’s got to be done before anyone is cleared.”

“How long will he be there? I want to see him.”

“Not before he’s interrogated, you can’t.”

“Tonks, all you need is my word and Harry’s, right? He’s over there. He’ll tell you.”

“They’ll call both of you for your statements. Until then, sit tight, okay?”

Sit tight. While Severus sits in some goddamn jail cell waiting to be interrogated with the rest of the Death Eaters. The man just killed the fucking Dark Lord, and they’re going to interrogate him? Stupid, boneheaded arsehole bureaucrats.

That’s when she realizes—Severus was right. Nothing is going to change. The bureaucrats will go on doing what they’ve always done, hauling away a hero along with the rest of the Death Eaters, throwing him in a detention cell, and telling her to _sit tight_.

* * *

During the time Hermione was sitting tight, the Wizengamot repealed the marriage law. Not only did they repeal it, but they passed a decree automatically annulling any childless marriage entered into under the law, and permitting quick divorces to couples who wanted them but were expecting a child, once custody agreements were in place. So, when Hermione showed up at the Ministry demanding to see her husband, she was informed that not only could she not see him, but he was no longer her husband, and she had no right to communicate with him at all.

When she returned to their quarters, she found all of her things moved out, and the bedroom that used to be hers no longer existed. 

Now, sitting in the single room assigned to her, she tries to study for her NEWTs but can’t focus. Crooks is curled up in a ball next to her. Forgoing his usual prowling about the castle, he’s stuck close to Hermione since the move, as though he can sense her sadness and loneliness, and knows she needs him.

There’s a knock at her door and she calls, “Come in.”

Ginny opens the door. “It’s lunchtime. Come on.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re never hungry, but you still have to eat, so come on.”

She walks beside Ginny down the staircases to the Great Hall. Halfway to the Gryffindor table, she stops dead in her tracks. Severus is sitting at the head table. As though sensing her staring at him, he turns to look at her. She can’t breathe. Why didn’t anyone tell her? Why didn’t _he_ tell her? Then, he turns back to continue his conversation with Filius, as though she doesn’t even exist, or at least doesn’t matter. 

“You didn’t know he was back?” Ginny asks. “You didn’t read _The Prophet_ this morning?”

Hermione can’t answer, can’t even shake her head. She stands there in the middle of the room, as though frozen.

“Go wait for me just outside,” Ginny says. “I’ll grab some sandwiches for us.”

Hermione nods and walks back to the door. In the corridor outside the Great Hall, she leans against the stones of the wall and tries to regulate her breathing. 

“Granger, you okay?”

She turns toward the sound of the voice. “Fine, Malfoy.”

“You don’t look fine.” He studies her. “You want to go someplace and talk?”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you, Ferret,” Ginny says. She hands Hermione a sandwich and tea in a takeaway cup. “Shove off.”

Malfoy looks at the cups the two witches are holding. “Since when do they have takeaway cups?”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Since when do they teach Transfiguration here?”

“A pleasure, Weaslette, as always,” Malfoy says with a mock bow. “Seriously, though, Granger. If you want to talk.”

Hermione nods, and Malfoy continues into the Great Hall. She walks beside Ginny to the main entrance and out the doors. It’s late May, so the weather is warm. In truth it’s a beautiful day, Hermione supposes. She tries to remember the last time she went outside. Not since the last time she Apparated to the Ministry only to be told she was no longer married and it was none of her concern how long her former husband might be incarcerated.

“It was in _The Prophet_?” Hermione asks, fishing her unread copy out of her bag.

“Yeah, but eat first,” Ginny orders when they’ve settled themselves under a tree.

Hermione picks up her sandwich. “Yes, Molly.” She takes a bite and chews. It tastes like cardboard. She swallows and takes a sip of tea, then opens the paper. In the photo of Severus emerging from the Ministry, he looks like hell. Dark circles, wrinkled robes, greasy hair, and a week’s growth of beard. But he was cleared of all charges. Lucius Malfoy was also released. They let Draco go two days ago. How they could have held Severus longer than Draco, and the same length of time as Lucius is beyond her. He killed Riddle, for crying out loud. She and Harry and Dumbledore all gave statements exonerating him, and still they let him sit in there for over a week. Because Severus was right—Death Eaters or no, the Malfoys have money and connections. They’re one of the Sacred Twenty-eight. The rules will always be different for them than they will be for an impoverished Halfblood like Severus or a Mudblood like her.

Ginny pokes her. “Molly says less reading and more eating.”

Hermione tries to muster a smile. “Have you finished torturing poor Harry yet?”

“After how long he tortured me? Not by a long shot.”

“You’re a cruel woman, Ginny Weasley.”

“Hey, at least I broke up with Dean.” Ginny takes a bite of her sandwich. After she swallows, she asks, “You’re going to go talk to him after lunch, right?”

“Talk to who?”

“Talk to who?” Ginny mocks, rolling her eyes.

Hermione takes a sip of her tea. “I don’t see that there’s anything to talk about.”

“Apart from the fact that you fancy the pants off him?”

Hermione thinks about protesting and denying, but instead she sighs, “Yeah, apart from that.” She finishes as much of her sandwich as she can stomach, then stands up. “I have to meet with Filius about my Charms NEWT.”

“When are you meeting with _Severus_ about your Potions and Defence NEWTs?”

“The poor man just got out of jail. I’m not going to start hounding him about my exams. I’m ready.”

Ginny Vanishes the remains of her lunch and stands. The two witches walk back to the castle together, going their separate ways inside as Hermione heads for Filius’s office. She’s a few minutes early so she sits in the chairs Filius keeps outside his door for students waiting to see him. Severus is the only professor who doesn’t do this. He says if they don’t want to see him badly enough to stand and wait, then clearly it’s not important enough for him to waste his time. Git, she thinks, shaking her head fondly.

As she’s rummaging in her bag for her Charms notebook, her fingers brush the black leather of the charmed journal Severus gave her the day after they were married. She pulls it out and traces the embossed silver initials in the lower right corner. HG. What happened to the S? She supposes that whatever magic the journal is charmed with connects with the Binding magic, and knows she and Severus are no longer Bound. Does that mean the journal no longer works? She opens it, and is relieved to see that the pages still contain all the notes they’ve exchanged in the months since he gave it to her. She turns to the last page on which his familiar spiky handwriting alternates with her more rounded cursive, and writes in the blank space below, _Are you all right?_

She waits, watching to see if words will appear, but they don’t. She’s still staring at the page when Filius opens his door and invites her in. Biting back a sigh, she closes the journal and puts it back in her bag.


End file.
